


a moment of apricity

by hystericalcherries, njckle



Series: Fantastic AUs [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action & Romance, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ilvermorny, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Awkward Romance, F/M, Ilvermorny, Slow Burn, Wizarding World in America, newtina
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2018-09-21 17:33:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9559769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hystericalcherries/pseuds/hystericalcherries, https://archiveofourown.org/users/njckle/pseuds/njckle
Summary: Newt returns to school.Although, he's a few years too late and in the wrong continent.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: I am an American. If anyone has problems with how I write Newt's dialogue, please inform me of what I can do to make it better. If there's a fact about the 1920s I've messed up, please tell me- don't be shy. Let me have it.
> 
> That being said, enjoy. :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _fernweh - n. far-sickness; a longing for far-off places_

Ilvermorny is like Hogwarts and yet not.

That sort of thing is expected, Newt supposes. When growing up, there’s always that childish feeling that never really goes away, growing smaller with each passing day, but still there nonetheless; even the most strictest of adults can reminiscent their youth, feel small in a castle they’ve never stepped foot it. How far the feeling of nostalgia mixed with déjà vu goes, now that is a mystery.

The magic surrounding the school is deep, ingrained in every stone and to every arching crest. Bay windows curve along corners and gabled dormers protrude from atop slanted roofs with dark tiles. Towers rise in staggering heights, bright flags allotted on every peak and swaying a beautiful dance in the wind. Bustles of green press in from all sides, clouds of forest floating the expanse of the mountainside, breathing life into an already thaumaturgic place. Gates, large and made of shining brass, surround the grounds, swinging open when the sole of his shoes touch the ground before it.

Yet, despite the awe inspiring picture it paints, nearly excessive in its impersonation of an impressionist painting, there is a welcoming air. The scaling walls do not swallow when one steps inside, but embrace. Safe and warm and magical, everything a school of wizardry should inflict upon its students. Newt feels it. He hasn’t stepped foot in Hogwarts’s halls since his expulsion, but Ilvermorny can almost convince him he’s back in Scotland and the Hufflepuff common room is just down the corner.

“How marvelous,” he murmurs, turning in circles and craning his neck to view the ceiling, taking in the delicate paintings of creatures and people of old. He spots a few recognizable creatures, smiling at what he can only assume is a Thunderbird.

He's barely through the second arch in the entrance when he hears, “Mr. Scamander!”

The voice is loud and strong, coming from behind him. Newt turns and is greeted by a dark-haired woman with high cheekbones and a flat nose dressed in red and blue.

“Headmistress Peregrine,” he greets, remembering the official letters sent to him, nodding his head and offering what he hopes is a respectful handshake when she reaches him. Her grip is firm. “It's, ah, an honor to finally meet you. I've heard so much.”

“Likewise.” Her smile is genuine, Newt notes. “I hope your journey here wasn't too difficult.”

The boat ride across the sea had been bearable, the weather realistically calm despite the cloudy disposition, and he hadn't gotten sick once, which was a small mercy to his person. But where the voyage had been kind, the people had been not; the officer at the docks had frowned distastefully when looking at his traveling papers, then another at the train had grumbled something about his accent when he had asked where the loo was, and then a final one just outside the gates had eyed him with suspicion when he had mentioned his newly obtained position; there were even strange looks to his suitcase and gruff mutters of “ _those pretentious English_ ,” but he makes no mention of that. Instead he nods, following her down the short hallway.

“No, not at all.”

The entrance opens up to a circular hall, one so large that Newt’s momentarily stunned by its magnitude. He steps away from the pair of lifelike statues framing the entrance, a woman and man with smiling faces, and further into the room to soak up more of the beauty. Taller and grander than the Great Hall in Hogwarts, it’s more fitting for a cathedral or basilica than a school, with walls made from white stone and a ring of columns that tower over him. There are three corridors, one straight across from the entrance and the other two at each side, that are bordered with similar stone carved so articularly that he's unsure on whether it was done by hand or magic.

A wooden balcony circles the room while a glass cupola allows rays of pale moonlight to shine down and cast winding shadows on the stone floor below. Headmistress Peregrine allows him to ogle, laughing a bit at his expense, before leading him to a set of stairs that he’s more than positive wasn't there prior, spiraling up into the second floor.

The view from above is just as astounding, the pattern marking the floor captivating, abstract shapes circling the central piece of the mural (the school’s crest). Newt lets his gaze slide from one sight to the next, unabashed at his eagerness.

Behind them the doors burst open, as do all the others leading to the second floor, and a wave of students of all ages surge through. The sheer amount of them appearing so quickly and without notable command is startling, their numbers more than what Newt’s encountered in a while.

The space fills quickly, the students pressing against the banister for a better look. A young boy no older than thirteen squeezes himself between Newt and a pillar, not offering him a moment’s glance.

The entrance doors swing open, a gaunt man with dark shadows under his eyes leading the group of first-years through. They stop just short of the mural.

The circle before them ripples, rings of small waves sweeping from its center. Then, like a mountain rising from the very earth, the floor bubbles up, twisting and morphing into shapes that rapidly begin to resemble figures. The first is the wampus, a fierce looking feline with an extra set of paws, the length of its tail leading to the long body of the horned serpent spiraling about the base, twin fangs sliding from a gaping mouth. Nestled in the middle, the small human-like figure of what Newt assumes is a pukwudgie stands with its prickly hair and lifelike furs, bow drawn. Finally, the head of what can only be a thunderbird erupts, followed by its copper body, wings spread like it's about to take flight.

The man produces a parchment and, with absolute monotone, says, “I will call your name and then you will step forward to the Guardian Knot to be chosen.”

The statues seem to shiver and Newt watches, captivated, as the group of first-years spread out along the wall in preparation. There's no sorting hat, he observes with analytical curiosity, and wonders how these Americans go about orientation.

The first child is called and steps forward.

A pause.

The statues breath, shift—come _alive_.

And the sorting begins.

* * *

 

“They'll be getting their wands,” Headmistress Peregrine tells him as she leads him down from the balcony, people parting for her without a word. “With Rappaport’s Law, students aren't allowed to keep their wand outside of Ilvermorny grounds.”

Newt raises his eyebrows, thoroughly surprised. A little too strict, he thinks, but interesting nonetheless. Maybe he should take the chance to read up on a American history, if only to understand it better.

They make their way through the castle, the headmistress leading with a fast pace set to the precise _click-clacks_ of her heels. Newt hurries to keep up, distracted by passing architecture and design; incredibly detailed, they are new and strange, untold stories just waiting for him to learn. Folklore has always been ally for Newt, creatures slipping through time, hidden underneath veiled truths, just waiting to be discovered by those willing to look.

Newt nods at the passing portraits and most of them smile, whilst some wave. A few frown and one even raises a fist, muttering, “Sniveling Redcoat.”

“Usually faculty come a week before the students to prepare for their classes, but since you've just come today you'll be a bit behind. Because of this, I've arranged for you to have a day or two to get your things in order—sadly, that's all I can give you. We must keep to the schedule.”

“That's more than enough time.”

“Good. Thankfully, you arrived before we let the students in—any later and you would have missed the sorting ceremony.” She looks back at him, thick eyebrows raised. “Would you like to say a few words when I introduce you?”

“No, that's fine—thank you.”

The corridors leads them to a grand staircase, which in turn leads them to a grandiose hall not unlike that in Hogwarts, with a high ceiling decorated with opulent arches and intricate carvings and floating chandeliers running along its length. Engaged columns pair around the multiple double doors that lead out to what Newt assumes is a terrace. They're closed now, the doors, but he can see a wonderful view of the canopy of the outside forest through their colored glass windows.

Everything's decorated in the school’s colors, the tables draped with blue and cranberry red. There's a second floor, he notes, catching sight of balconies. Banners and drapes hang from their rails, adding a touch of exaggerated extravagance that would have no home in his motherland.

A man dressed in black stares down at him from the shadows of a curtain.

Headmistress Peregrine follows his line of sight, glancing at the man for a fraction of a second before continuing on smoothly. “With all the uproar going on in Europe we will be having extra security for the school this year. Who knows where Grindelwald will attack and so, MACUSA has _graciously_ stationed a number of their aurors here as a precaution.”

The tone of her voice indicates anything but gratitude and Newt grins. He's certain he's going to like this woman.

The headmistress leads him past long tables, through a storm of plates, cups, and other silverware flying to their designated places, embroidered tablecloths and napkins floating ever so gracefully. They step over a colorful mural of the school’s coat of arms right at the head and Newt almost runs into a spoon to stop and get a better look at it.

The other teachers are already in their seats at the oblong table at the end of the hall, chatting amongst themselves. When they spot the newcomers, a few eyes track Newt’s movement with interest, sizing him up from his worn boots to his tan complexion.

Headmistress Peregrine motions to the only empty seat remaining. “You'll be sitting with Mrs. Barrow and Ms. Erigenia, Mr. Scamander.”

Newt hurries to get out of the spotlight. “Excuse me,” he says to the dark-haired woman at the end of the table, trying his best not to hit anyone with his suitcase as he passes them by. He takes his seat between two women, to his left a Native American woman with two thick braids, and to his right a young African woman with short, curly hair. He nods to them both, otherwise remaining silent, and waits for the students with the rest of them.

He doesn't have to wait long. The clock above them rings as its hands hit a quarter to six and the main doors swing open without help.

Students surge through, bringing in laughing voices that seem to fill up the space, ricocheting from one wall to the next before ringing along the chandeliers. The sheer amount of them is overwhelming, the dark blue of their robes making them appear like a surging sea as they continue filing into the hall without stop. They take their seats, dividing into their sorted house. Newt spots a few first-years running in from the utmost back, branding their newly acquired wands with unadulterated joy.

Headmistress Peregrine stands once they've settled. “Welcome back for another marvelous year at Ilvermorny. I trust you all had an exciting summer and have come back ready to learn.” Someone snorts loudly, but she ignores it. “For those of you new here, I wish to welcome you—I’m sure you’ll come to see Ilvermorny as a second home and I look forward to seeing you all thrive into outstanding witches and wizards. But, before we start that journey together, there’s a few announcements to be made.”

“We have a new guest this year. Due to Mr. Jensen’s leave of absence, we have found a temporary replacement for the position.” Headmistress Peregrine motions to Newt. “Newt Scamander has come from the Ministry of Magic and will be filling in for Mr. Jensen this term. I hope you all give him the utmost respect and courtesy he deserves.”

All eyes turn to him, the new face amongst the teachers.

He attempts to stand, only to hit the table’s edge and send every silverware near him rocking. There is a ripple of laughter and he quickly takes his seat again, flushing to his roots.

It's fine, he supposes. He had been a first year once, the anxiety and fear and uncertainty almost overshadowing the excitement. Laughter is better (even if he is the target) and it goes a long way.

Thankfully, Headmistress Peregrine raises a hand and the students instantly quiet. “As always, traveling down the mountainside is forbidden and those caught doing so will be dealt with thoroughly. On behalf of MACUSA we will be housing agents from the Magical Investigation Department for extra security. I hope I don’t have to remind any of you to be on your best behavior.” She gives the room a semi-serious glare before waving her wand. “Now, let us proceed with the feast.”

Food appears in the plates set out in front of Newt, as it does for all the tables. The gobsmacked expression of the first-years are more than amusing, completely overwhelmed by the buffet currently at their disposal. None of them hesitate, throwing courtesy and appearance to the side in favor of trying it all.

He smiles. _Very much like Hogwarts_ , he thinks.

* * *

 

After dinner, a pukwudgie wearing breeches and a simple shirt waits for him. It barely comes up to his knees and holds a lantern nearly as tall as it, but carries a no-nonsense air that Newt would expect from his boss in England.

Upon a closer look, the pukwudgie is more human-like than Newt initially thought, with the same number of fingers and toes as any human, though it's nails are far longer. It's dark-skinned with large, triangular ears and a hooked nose, the hair atop its head appearing to be more like porcupine spikes, trailing down its back to its knees. Newt can't help but wonder how closely related it is to house elves and goblins.

“If you're done staring, wizard, you'll be following me,” the pukwudgie grumbles in a voice like tumbling rocks, staring up at him with beady eyes.

“Ah, yes—sorry. I've never met one of your kind before and I was wondering if—” He stops when its frown deepens. He remembers how the banshee in his department—Olivia, he thinks her name was—had lectured him from sunrise to sundown on the etiquette of engaging conversation with sentient beings, labeling all talk of digestive tracts and reproduction systems as improper. “Right—my apologies. Lead the way.”

It grumbles something in its own language, turning and marching down the hallways, far faster than Newt might expect with its short feet. He hurries to catch up, unable to help himself from staring at the assortment of things hidden in its hair (feathers and yarn, even some keys). Fascinating.

Stone silent, the pukwudgie leads him out of the main part of the castle (with only a few glares when he’s caught staring), the light of the lantern throwing shadows along the walls and dozing portraits when they reach less used corridors. They cut across empty courtyards until they're following stone steps down into the forest.

It's not long until they reach their destination: the little house where he's to stay is located at the west end of the school, lower along the mountainside. The path to it is beaten and old, cutting through a patch of thick trees that hide it from view of the main buildings. While it follows with the school’s architectural style, it has significantly less flair. One story, covered with ivy still vivid green despite this far into autumn, it's more of a cottage than anything else.

The pukwudgie hands him the key and somehow vanishes while his back is turned. He searches for it in the crowded trees and thick underbrush, but spots not a spiked hair.

The door creaks a bit when he enters, a tell-tale sign of regular use, and he finds comfort in that. Once inside, he sets down his case at the doorway and takes in the place he'll be calling home for the next nine months. It's a quaint set up, a small living room with an open doorway leading to a kitchen that doubles up as a dining room, while another door opens up what's to be his bedroom. Someone has already set a fire going in the stone fireplace, the crackling of flames masking the calls of the forest and warding off the cold clinging to his clothes.

One word to describe the entire place is _cozy_ , from its autumn colored furniture to the photos that hang from its walls. Newt idly picks up one laying on the small dresser, peering at the family smiling up at him. It's a portrait, with a man and woman and two little boys, a simple backdrop behind them. A perfect family, he thinks as the man brings his youngest boy closer.

Newt notes the date scribbled on the back of the frame. The boys are grown, both dead.

Now more than ever, he realizes what he's doing: in a stranger's home, a little house in America, he’s replacing a mourning father. The thought doesn't sit well with him, but there's nothing he can do to relieve it.

“I'll make sure your home is looked after,” he promises the man in the photo.

The man smiles, happy and carefree.

* * *

Although his residence at Ilvermorny is only temporary, Headmistress Peregrine offers him all that he needs. As long as it's reasonable and safe, he may do whatever he wishes, teach the students as he sees fit. That sort of freedom is a stark change than the limitations the Ministry inflict on him and a gift that he does not want revoked.

He's informed that his classes will be held in a small hall not too far from his living quarters. There's a path at the side of the house, and when he follows it, he reaches a little building next to a babbling brook.

It's simple like the house, with multiple large windows on the east wall, showing a clear view of the wilderness outside. Four rows of desks take up most of the room while cupboards and shelves occupy the wall opposite of the window, already stocked with herbs and ingredients with which he's familiar. He sets up the few things he’s brought, his desk cleared of everything except for his case.

Around noon he sees a trail of children making their way from the school and he waits anxiously as they file into the hall and take their seats. They eye him like an outsider trying to integrate itself into a tightly knit herd and he supposed that’s what he is, a foreigner suddenly stepping into their lives hoping to be accepted. Cooperation came from coalition in both humans and beasts.

Newt opens his mouth to say—what, he doesn't know. Thankfully, introductions are taken out of his hands when someone blatantly asks, “Who’re you?”

“Didn’t you hear Headmistress? He’s the Brit who’s replacing Mr. Jensen.”

“Mr. Salamander-”

“Scamander,” someone corrects.

He nods. “Ah, yes, that's me. I'll be temporarily standing in for Mr. Jensen.”

There's a moment of silence, all eyes on him, waiting for him to continue. Another small revelation hits him, that he's expected to stand in front of room full of children and talk and teach day after day.

Dealing with dragons has never been this daunting, a walk in the park when compared to mingling with humans. As dangerous and wild as they were, dragons followed guidelines that set precise interaction and socialization keys within the species (despite how unpredictable those guidelines were to humans). Newt could read a dragon’s mood by the telltale signs of its body language (the agitated swish of an armored tail, the rustling of leathery wings that meant fear, the playful bobbing of a horned head) and take appropriate action as well as the best of them, but he was less than adequate in deciphering the human language, much less that of adolescents.

There’s a reason he traveled the world alone, abandoning humans in favors of animals.

He clears his throat, clasping his hands behind his back. “Right—yes. My purpose here is to educate you on magical creatures. You have been taught how to deal with them, but not how to live with them.” Young faces take on bored expressions and he winces inwardly, remembering nearly falling into a coma at his Charms professor’s tranquilizing voice and less than exciting lectures. “Magical creatures don't know they should be careful—that they have to hide. This is why they are a threat to exposing the wizarding world.”

“Because they're dangerous,” a girl in the front row says and, despite his appreciation for class participation, Newt frowns a little.

“They are dangerous, yes, but so am I—as are all of you. Everyone has the potential to be dangerous, it’s a matter of what we do with the power we have. There's a difference between defending oneself and going out of the way to inflict harm on another." He winces, not meaning to say what he did, before hurriedly continuing forward. “Magical creatures are divided into three categories: beings, beasts, and spirits. Of the three, we will be focusing on beasts—though if you have questions on the other two, I'm sure we can take time to discuss them. As you know, the Ministry—ah, excuse me, I mean to say MACUSA—has classified creatures into five sub-categories. You've already learned about the creatures in the first two classes, so we'll be skipping straight to class three and four. Many of these creatures will be standard beasts, but some will be not so standard.” He brings out his ace for the evening, showing the students the dormant Swooping Evil hanging on his finger. “This—is an example of one not so standard.”

A moment of silence, and then, “What is it?”

“The locals called it Swooping Evil,” he says. “Quite an agile fellow. It's venom is highly dangerous, but, diluted correctly, I believe it can help erase bad dreams.”

“What kind of name is Swooping Evil?”

Newt frowns. “I think it's a fine name—if not a bit overly dramatic.”

They are, overall, unimpressed.

If any full grown wizard knew what he had in his hand, he would be on the receiving end of a thorough lecture on student safety (but that's what he’s come to expect—caution and fear. Always fear.). But there’s only him and the children, no authority figure to tell him to stop. By all means, this is his chance to show these children what he's seen all along, to make them understand. Amazing, fantastic, awe inspiring, that's what his creatures are.

He turns to his desk, running a thumb along its green spine. It shivers, awake. There's soft chattering behind him, the students losing interest and beginning to socialize among themselves, and he thinks it's about time to start the show.

He throws the Swooping Evil underhand.

It roars, the solid _clack!_ of its snapping jaw loud over the sudden commotion in the room. Newt keeps his grip, fighting the pull of its wings for one, two, three, four flaps. Then he yanks it back with a hard tug. The Swooping Evil folds in on itself immediately, returning back into its dormant state.

Newt smiles to himself. “We probably shouldn’t let it loose in here.”

He turns back to a startled room. Gaping mouths and wide eyes greet him, exaggerated to comedic extents; some of the front row are even on the ground while others stand further back near the doorway. He'd expected as much, but after continued silence, he's not so sure this was his best choice.

“Perhaps that was a bit too much,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. Maybe what he considers amazing _is_ more frightening to others.

His finger twitches and the majority of the room jump. The Swooping Evil is back in his pocket and out of sight.

“Right—well, er, not all the creatures I'll show will be quite… attention grabbing. I—”

“Where did you find that?”

The question is out of the blue. Still, he answers the girl. “In Equatorial Guinea. Nearly mistook it for a plant. Now, as I was saying—”

“Why were you there?” asks a blond boy.

“I spent a year out in the field for my research—many of the magical creatures I was studying were from Africa. That isn't to say it's the only place I visited—I spent some time in India before that and a week or two in Romania—”

“And now you're here—teaching?”

“The Ministry wanted to keep its ties with MACUSA intact and strong—and I was already intending to make a trip to North America…”

“Why?”

“I was intending to search for a gowrow,” he lies.

“That ain't real,” someone says from the back.

Truth or not, there is a prickle of annoyance. He overcomes it, reminding himself that the world had once said the same thing about Nifflers and look where he is now, constantly babysitting one. “It hasn't been discovered _yet_.”

From his peripheral vision he sees a lock on his case pop open. The students’ attention shifts. They all look like they're ready to bolt, as if something will jump out of his case—which seems silly in retrospect, with its battered appearance, but Newt knows how real the possibility is.

Newt gives a small smile and casually clicks the lock back into place. “I must get that fixed—any more questions?”

A sea of hands shoot into the air.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _gauche - n. lacking ease or grace; unsophisticated or socially awkward_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why this chapter took as long as it did.

The rest of his classes proceed as his first, his students asking him countless questions. They're more or less the same, easy ones he can answer and are memorized by his third day at Ilvermorny. He tells one or two lies to ward off suspicion when a child gets a smidge too interested, and, soon enough, he has a solid story with an acceptable amount of detail. And so, the first week passes without problem, as does the initial buzz about him. The students go from eyeing him in the hallways to nodding and uttering a quick, “Professor,” before hurrying off to bigger and better things.

With one problem gone, another arises. Despite the Headmistress insisting that he’s treated with utmost respect, the school is less accepting than the people living in it. Ilvermorny, though not as old as Hogwarts, is still a magical place, and takes to strangers as well as an Ukranian Ironbelly in heat—and, by all means, Newt is just that, an invading stranger.

And, like any beast presented with an unwanted stranger in their home, the school makes its opinion known. Loudly.

He gets turned around, ending up at dead ends where he’s sure there should be a classroom, walking into the kitchen despite knowing that it’s on the opposite side of the school, and, worst of all, repeatedly having the toilettes switched up. It’s partly because the layout is strange to him, faring as well as a first-year, but he blames most of his pains to the actual school rather than his incompetencies.

The curtains try to strangle him if he gets too close, the tapestries always ready for a fight, and the windows love to open at the right moment to have a gust of wind blow his papers in disarray. His first trip to the library is an dangerous one, nearly resulting in him flattened by a towering shelf and tossed over the second story balcony by an angry armchair, and, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t find the text he came in to find. He takes a particularly ridiculing fall when, halfway up a set of stairs, the steps meld into a slide and send him tumbling back to the first floor.

There are no students or faculty nearby to witness it, but the paintings have a good laugh at his expense.

Then there are the ghosts.

Where there are wizarding schools, there are sure to be ghosts—a common occurrence—integrated into school life no matter which continent one finds themselves on. Newt remembers his first year at Hogwarts and how the ghosts of the school surged into the Great Hall during the first dinner (Nearly Headless Nick was always popping through students’ plates for a quick laugh).

He wonders why he hadn't seen any during his first night at Ilvermorny, only to get his answer on his way to Headmistress’ office a few days later when, without precedence, a battle erupts around him. Misty figures armed with wands and swords appear quite suddenly and, before he realizes what’s happening, charge at one another. There’s no fear of being hurt, but walking through a ghost did leave one with chills and a weird, detached feeling, and Newt’s not willing to find out what it feels like to have an incorporeal sword pass through him.

Thankfully, the Headmistress’s office appears just when he needs it, giving him a the opportunity to escape, and the woman within merely gives him a bemused expression when he tells her of his encounter.

“Nothing out of the ordinary, Mr. Scamander,” she tells him. “Just the dead reliving their glory days.”

Newt learns to take it all in stride like one of his expeditions, Ilvermorny a type of beast that must be studied. Once he does that, life settles into a sort of familiar rhythm.

The school pesters him and he deals with it the best he can. Eventually, he gets the hang of stepping out the way of overeager doors swinging open and always has a spare box of chalk when his current one goes suspiciously missing. He learns to keep his ink jar away from his papers lest the table develops an in-the-moment limp and not laugh quite so loudly when he purposefully takes the banister down a spiraling staircase.

Despite the odd looks he gets, he takes his case wherever he goes within the castle. Can’t have the off chance of someone finding it lying about, thinking it a good joke to make the newest teacher search high and low for his things. He doesn’t want to think ill of anyone here, but he had been young once and, on occasion, had gone to great lengths to obtain what he needed for his and Leta’s experiments (whether or not his professors knew of his use of their things).

Most days he keeps to himself, falling back to his case and his creatures. There he can't be pestered by confrontational ghosts that break out in brawls and raunchy noblewoman calling out from fancy frames. In his case, he knows every nook and cranny, navigating it with sure steps and a confidence he could only aspire to attain in the outside world.

However, he is a teacher and, even as a temporary substitute, is held up to a standard with responsibilities that force him to meet social requirements. The ever dreadful, faculty meetings.

That is where he meets a Porpentina Goldstein.

* * *

 He's late to the teacher's meeting, tie askew and dried leaves stuck between the buttons of his vest. There are odd looks directed his way, but no one says anything about it, only carrying on with whatever they were discussing before he entered.

It takes merely a moment to find a seat near the back of the group and a moment longer to find himself completely bored when he takes the time to listen to what's being said. The Headmistress is there for a little while, vocalizing her trademark speech of unity and legacies for the school, before saying something about janitorial staff and transfers and making her way out; she gives him a secret smile as she leaves, pinching his elbow when she catches him growing distant. After that, it's all talk of new regulations and distributions of supplies.

Nothing interests him, so he observes the room instead. With how many classrooms there are, he supposed it only right to have one solely for the professors. A common room of sorts.

Like everywhere else in the school, the architecture is same, with no specific affiliation toward any particular house, the colors and style completely neutral. There’s a fireplace like the one in his cottage, only bigger and far more elegant, and plush couches and armchairs settled around it. One or two unfamiliar teachers lounge there, while the rest of the staff are seated on the long tables across from the fireplace as they go from topic to topic until, _finally_ , the meeting is adjourned.

He politely shakes his head when a large pot floats over to him from the counter by the doorway, spilling what he thinks is coffee over the arm of a sullen loveseat.

He’d never bothered to think about the social lives of his professors as very few of them took to him more than necessary. Now, as one himself, he's curious as to what goes on behind the scenes of encompassing lectures and rigid structure, and is severely disappointed when the meeting is no more exciting than his time spent behind his desk at the Ministry. He hears what he expects, outrageous tales of students (most of them ending with detentions), past and current, as well as discussions of homelife. The only thing remotely interesting is the recounting of a duel between two students, one that was settled out in the middle of the hallway not far from them.

He listens to his colleagues for a small amount of time before eagerly moving away, too bored to care about the less subtle looks of offense sent his way. One round about the room, then he makes for his cottage again and back into his case—his fwooper was coming down with a cold and it would be best if he got to making a remedy as soon as possible. He spots a lone woman sitting on a double armchair on his way out and something catches his eye. He wanders over, getting a good look at what she's holding when he's close enough. It's a newspaper.

_The New York Ghost._

Interesting. Newt hadn't bothered with keeping up with current events (nor had he the luxury while deep in rainforests and deserts), only interested when a beast was mentioned. The constant attacks and muggle scares were often less than cheery, and he didn't bother joining the ranks of the millions of wizards fretting and worrying in their homes.

Someone clears their throat. “Can I help you?”

He looks up into eyes the color of freshly upturned dirt. A single eyebrow is raised, curious and expectant, and Newt feels heat creep up the back of his neck.

His cheek twitches. “No. I was just reading.”

Hair brushes against her jaw when she tilts her head, looking almost… amused? As if to indulge him, she shows him the front page, the picture showcasing a burning building, small figures running away as flames roll into smoke.

“There’s been multiple attacks these past few weeks,” she explains. “MACUSA is still trying to identify the creature behind them.”

“A creature?” he repeats.

“Yes. MACUSA is very sure about that. No human could cause this amount of damage.”

Despite the unarguable tone, Newt isn't so sure. It was best not underestimate the damage a person, magical or not, could inflict. Headlessly disregarding a problem as being the result of a rampaging beast was an act his fellows wizards did easily and repeatedly, so he did his best to give the benefit of the doubt. If one only searched a little deeper, looking past the expected explanation, there was always a lead that came back to ignorant wizards throwing the care of magical creatures aside for their own benefit.

Newt realizes that woman is waiting for a response and he’s been staring at her paper for longer than necessary. “Pardon my manners, I'm—”

“Newt Scamander. I know.”

Ah, yes, he'd forgotten about his introduction to the whole school. “And you are?”

“Tina Goldstein.” She offers him her hand, completely professional. They shake.

“Ms. Goldstein—is this fairly recent?” He motions to the article.

“It's the morning edition.”

He nods, leaning in to see what the article said about this so-called beast. Sadly, there's nothing critically identifying. He expects as much, only a select few bothering to correctly educate themselves on magical creatures while the rest of the wizarding world merely applied the ‘kill on sight’ rule.

He wonders what it could be. Leprechauns are out of the question—they were prankster, yes, but never inflicted any lasting damage. Only a handful of doxies and pixies would be needed to cause chaos, but what the article suggested would mean hundreds of the little creatures and the two species could barely hold a group of twenty without mutiny.

Perhaps it was two separate species. Symbiotic companionship between animals, magical or not, happened in the wild, so the possibility of it being more than one creature isn't that farfetched. Newt couldn't name a pair of creatures that were this erratic on the top of his head, much less this close to civilization without having being trafficked by some wizard.

His eyes scrounge the rest of the page in hopes of finding anything than can shorten his list. One small section catches his eye.

“‘Lingering Effects of Salemers Scandal—’” he reads aloud, squinting when he gets to where the paper begins to crinkle.

Without warning, the newspaper is ripped away. Newt blinks as Ms. Goldstein jumps from her seat and quickly folds the newspaper, jamming it under her armpit. Her lips are pulled in a fierce frown.

“It was wonderful talking to you, Mr. Scamander, but I have somewhere to be—so if you'll excuse me.” She marches past him, expertly evading an insistent coffee pot and a jerky cup of sugar.

Newt watches her go, confused. He’s fairly certain he did nothing to insult the woman, much less say anything to make her leave in such a hurry. Socializing with his kind was never something he was ecstatic about—unless it was directly related to a creature—but he doubts he’s that inadequate when he’s barely a year out of practice.

It must’ve have been due to their conversation, he guesses, but can’t discern why.

 _No matter_ , he thinks, shaking his head. He has more important things to think about—self-appointed things like the deducing what kind of magical creature would be wreaking havoc in small towns in America.

Theseus would help, if only to humor him and his ‘hobby’ as he liked to say it, an owl away. If anything, his brother will merely think he's on the tail of some evasive creature (which he could be) and won’t ask him for his sudden interest.

Already a plan is forming in his mind, his interest piqued by these unusual attacks and his stubbornness pushing him to figure it out himself. This isn’t what he expected when coming to Ilvermorny, but he can’t complain, not when it gives him the opportunity to aid a misplaced creature. He doesn’t believe in fate, but chance seems to have set him in America alongside these strange happenings and he’ll make use of this opportunity as much as he can.

With that in mind, he sets off, a certain spring in his step.

* * *

 

While the faculty don't pry, the students are at that age where they find no problem asking him questions that would normally be off limits to teachers. Clearly, as it was at Hogwarts, he's the oddball, the Englishman thrown in the middle of an American melting pot, and that opens him to countless questionnaires.

One beats all others: “What's in your case anyway? You always have it with you.”

It's the fifth time the question has been asked during two class periods and he knows it won't be the last. The object is too prominent to shrug off as insignificant and, as no matter how many times he opens it to show them the ordinary clutter stuffed in its safety setting, they are too clever to take his falsities at face value.

“Nothing special,” is the designated response, along with the common misdirection.

This time it's a presentation of sorts.

He drags his stool to the center of the classroom, motioning for the students to get out of their seats. “Gather around.”

They follow his order, shuffling until he is surrounded by a sea of faces, all turned toward him, expecting. It is unnerving for all of a second before he feels a small nudge against his chest.

“Pickett,” he calls, tapping his top pocket. There's a squeak and he sees the top of a leafy head, but nothing more. “Come now, Pickett, don't be shy.”

Another squeak, but the bowtruckle does peak out from his vest.

Instantly, the class is enamored and a few of the girls squeal when they catch sight of him. The rest of the students bunch closer for a better look as the bowtruckle comes out more. With a little more prodding, Pickett climbs out into the open, crawling up to stand on his shoulder. The creature rests one slender hand against Newt’s neck, making a familiar bridge between them.

“Pickett, here, is a bowtruckle,” he informs them, knowing that his friend doesn't fit this year’s criteria, but deciding the lesson must be taught regardless. “They are very handy and can pick almost any lock you put in from of them.”

There is more gushing and it makes something warm and soft float in his chest.

“Can I…?” one of the girls ask. She reaches out, only to pull back a half second later (Newt’s glad—his previous lecture about personal boundaries for different creatures must've gotten through to someone).

“Certainly.”

Pickett lets out an alarmed squeal and hooks his spindly fingers around Newt’s ear, fixating himself there as if Newt was intending to give him away for good.

“Pickett—Pick—he has some attachment issues,” he explains in an effort to console the rejected girl when he attempts to pick up the creature, a pinch of pain pricking his lobe in response. He gives an exasperated sigh and gives up, ignoring the smug shimmy his tiny friend does. “Which is exactly why I’m accused of favoritism.”

Pickett blows him a raspberry, but lets go of his ear now that he's not being abandoned (honestly, Newt would never).

“Now that is beneath you,” he says as the students laugh. Still, he smiles.

The bowtruckle makes its way down the length of his arm, gazing at the students surrounding him almost anxiously. Neurotic is a word that can describe Pickett at times, insecure and shy at others; the amount of time he's spent in the outside world and away from his branch exceeds any of the other bowtruckles and still Pickett isn't all too open to strangers. Newt lifts his hand, palm up, and Pickett scurries to it.

“I saved him and his branch from a logging site. Bowtruckles are tree guardians. Anyone have a guess as to what that entails?”

“They guard trees?”

Newt nods at the half-hearted answer. “They take care of one tree and one tree only. Once they've chosen one, they won't leave it. It's one of the reasons why deforestation poses such a problem to them specifically.”

“Can't we just move the tree somewhere else?” a Wampus girl asks.

“Yes, that would be easier, wouldn't it? More efficient as well, if taken straightforward. But,” he says quickly when he sees more heads nodding in agreement, “what would you say if I told you that, more often than not, bowtruckles claim trees such as hornbeam, rosewood and even the ever evasive elder tree?”

He can see the realization hit.

His wand is out and spun between nimble fingers, distracting the little bowtruckle for a span of two seconds before Newt’s knuckles grow more interesting. “For those unaware, these are examples of wand wood. Most of the time, it’s rather easy to get the wood and bark. Simply offer some woodlice—fairy eggs if you have some—to placate the bowtruckles and they’ll allow you to take what you need.”

He tucks his chin. “Except… sometimes that’s not enough. The wand making industry is rather large and in constant demand with every witch and wizard born—and it is far easier to get rid of these creatures and take the tree entirely—which means that Pickett here is considered less important.”

He wiggles his fingers and Pickett lets out a high pitched squeak as he swings, enjoying himself.

“As you can see, Pickett doesn't know that I am, biologically, the same as all of you. He doesn't care—he's already claimed me as, what I perceive to be, his new tree and, if offered the choice, would choose to stay with me even as I lay dying.” He pauses, head cocked as he stares at his small friend. “Very loyal creatures, bowtruckles.”

Pickett slips, but Newt is there to catch him with his other hand, gently setting him back on his shoulder. Not a moment later, the green creature is snuggled under his collar, safe and warm.

He looks up at his students, watching the ribbons of thought catch their attention. He offers a small smile.

“Just a sickle for your thoughts.”

* * *

Newt sees the accursed thing on his second week at Ilvermorny, both in the hands of students and laying ominously on their desks. Something he hasn't trusted since he'd been forced to utilize during his Hogwarts days and wishes he didn’t see in his classroom.

Bestarium Magicum.

He has his own copy, but he’s marked it up so thoroughly with his own notes, that’s it nearly impossible to decipher the original text. Sometimes, if he's feeling especially spiteful, he'll _accidentally_ drop it in the path of his giant dung beetles.

“Rubbish.” He hands the book back to the student, a strawberry blond boy of wiry build, whom he has borrowed it from and makes his way to his desk. He has the urge to wipe his hands clean. “We will not be using the book. I apologize that you had to buy the new edition, but I had only been asked to teach two weeks prior the semester starting.”

The boy, whose name escaped him at the moment—Edward, maybe? Or could it have been Brandon?—speaks up with furrowed brows. “Is something wrong with it?”

“That's depends. Most wizards would say no, but I find this book severely lacking. For example, while its description of the limax is adequate, its account of its behavior is less so.”

“Limax?”

“Air-breathing land slugs-terrestrial pulmonate gastropod mollusk in the Limacidae family,” he says, pretending he can actually see his words enter one ear and shoot out the other. With a wave of his wand a piece of chalk floats to the board and begins a rudimentary sketch of the creature. “Imagine a hammer head with a snake-like body and four arms. It has no natural way of defending itself, so it often bears handmade weapons. The only creature of its intelligence level to do so.”

“What kind of weapons?”

“Oh, anything it can get its hands on. It'll take a quill right out of your hands if it feels like it has to.” The corner of his lips twitch. “If I remember correctly, that's how the first attempt at observation went—threatened Professor Briggs of Cambridge with his own butter knife.”

One or two students laugh.

“It says it’s paranoid,” Emil Johnson says, a constant presence in the seat next to the window, looking through his book. He flips a page. “That’s it.”

“Yes, and rightly so. It has many predators and is constantly on the move. Because it is suspicious of all creatures, the females will often fight off the advancing males. Once they do mate, they will form a partnership until their young is old enough to fend for itself. After that, the family will go their separate ways indefinitely.”

“That's so sad,” says a skinny boy in the front.

Newt shakes his head. “Creatures mate solely for the continuation of their species. Humans are the oddballs, searching out partners for the chance of an emotional connection.”

“So they don't love each other?”

“The mind of a beast is very different than a human, so the way they perceive and think varies from how we do. What we consider love may not fit what a manticore considers necessary for a mateship,” he says, noticing the interest of the rest of the class, even the students who don't usually follow along, shifting towards him. “It depends on the creature in question. While most species of dragons are promiscuous and don't form pair bonds, hippogriffs mate for life—as do owls and unicorns. When observing each, you can see the difference in their level of affection, as well as how close it mirrors that of a human.”

“But you said they don't feel love like we do.”

He didn’t plan for the conversation to turn philosophical, but he'll admit that he's enjoying it. Questions meant they were interested. “I never said that. I merely stated that it's a highly debatable topic depending on the constructs one has for love.”

“So what do you think?”

Newt stalls for a moment. He shouldn't impose his views on them, but leave them to make their own opinions. That's the professional way—the appropriate way. That’s the way most of his professors handled the question when he was first learning the subject.

Bugger his professors. He isn't like them and would teach as he pleases.

“I believe we all have similar instincts at a basic level. I believe that they feel pain as we do, can be happy or angry, have likes of their own. They are as complex as you and I—so what's to say they don't love.”

They find his answer adequate.

The discussion continues long after class is over.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _serendipity - n. the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teacher Newt, for your pleasure.

His niffler getting out, now that, he should have expected.

Ilvermorny isn't like one of Newt’s expeditions, all wild terrain and free of civil society expeditions. Communities have people; where there are people, there are valuables, and where there are valuables, his Niffler will undoubtedly sneak out to snatch them under everyone’s noses. Of all his creatures, it’s the most mischievous; in all regards, it’s a nuisance (lovable in every aspect, but a nuisance nonetheless) that is more often than naught a thorn in his side. With how long he’s had it in his case, he should be more equipped for its untimely escapades.

Disappointing on his part, truly.

He notices the little rascal is missing during his morning class when students begin complaining their pens are vanishing. One gone is an accident, but eleven missing? Now that is a cry of a heist in the works.

“Professor?” someone asks when he's stopped mid-lecture about the reproduction of Grindylows at the hint of a midnight blue pelt he catches slipping through the window pane.

“Hm, yes? I just—” He checks his watch. Ten minutes before the end of class. “How about we continue this discussion next time?”

His students find that agreeable and he dismisses them without fanfare, out the door and racing up the hill before any of them can begin to gather their things. His niffler turns to spot Newt halfway up the hill, determination in his eyes, and that's when the real chase begins. It leads him into the school and through the labyrinth-like corridors always one step ahead; Newt would've caught the platypus-like creature easily enough if the school wasn't out for his demise, stretching out the chase far longer than necessary.

As expected, the school turns him around and he loses sight of the beast, but all he has to do is follow the trail of students lamenting about their stolen items, even one or two shining coins leading him deeper into the school until he's in front of an unfamiliar door. It’s unlocked and he slips in without thinking, locking the door behind him. One less escape route to worry about.

The quicker he finds his niffler, the quicker he can return the possessions undoubtedly stolen. It will be quite a hassle, figuring out what belongs to who—maybe he could find a spell to save him the trouble (though the resulting spectacle of flying possessions would, more likely than not, lead to unwanted talk). Still, he must find the small creature before anything else and that must start somewhere. So, he looks up—

—only to face a room filled with students and a bewildered Ms. Goldstein at the other end.

“Oh, hello.”

There is a moment when the woman doesn't have the words to respond, head angled his way even as she faces the blackboard, wand paused in its guidance of the floating piece of chalk scribbling the fundamentals of counter-jinxes. It doesn't last long. Eyebrows furrowing in a question, her mouth speaks, “Are you looking for something, Mr. Scamander?”

He looks at the nearest table’s edge. “No, no, absolutely not.”

“Then is there a reason for you being in my classroom?”

“No—yes, ah, yes, I do believe there is. Me, being here—there is a perfectly acceptable reason.”

There is a raised platform near the back of the room for what he assumes is hands-on practice. Newt hadn't taken much interest in Defense of the Dark Arts (because that’s what class he has undoubtedly interrupted) and had never been particularly adept, preferring to surround himself with the honest intentions of creatures and potted plants, so he's not as familiar with the layout as he'd like to be. Still, there could be holes and crevices that could house a certain Niffler…

“And?”

He snaps his focus back to Ms. Goldstein. “And? Mmh—oh, yes, the reason...”

She sighs. “Mr. Scamander, if you’re just going to waste time-”

“I was wondering if you could answer a question of mine,” he says in a rush, eyes darting around the room. He doesn't see a familiar pelt and long snout. “I've been searching for, er, a birthday present. A creature, of sorts.”

“A creature,” she deadpans. “And you couldn't get it in England?”

“No, there's only one breeder of Appaloosa puffskeins in the world.”

“We don't allow the breeding of magical creatures in America— _Mr. Scamander_.”

Newt straightens, practically jumping. The student whose desk he was searching peers at him strangely. “Yes?”

“Did you drop something?”

“No, I was just looking.”

Ms. Goldstein crosses her arms. “So you are looking for something.”

A girl squeals and Newt’s on the move, down on his knees and crawling in the spaces between desks, barely catching sight of a tail before it disappears in the shadows of a cluttered bookshelf. He curses under his breath, rising from his knees.

Ms. Goldstein stands before him, frown in place and wand pointed at his face. “I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

Newt gets the feeling he could be part of a class demonstration if this continues. Best not poke an aggravated Manticore—not that Ms. Goldstein could be mistaken for one, what with her lack of scorpion tail.

Then, he spots it: a twinkle of light by the window.

He crosses the room quickly, climbing ontop of the small bookcase that runs along the wall and peers out. His niffler pauses at the base of a rafter peering up at him silently before scurrying off, tail flicking in a victorious farewell.

Newt hoists himself up and is already halfway out the window when, “Mr. Scamander!”

He stops. “Yes?”

Ms. Goldstein gives him a meaningful look, a stone carving among the sea of surprised faces that of her class. “We’re on the third story.”

He looks to the ground briefly. “Yes. Yes, I suppose we are.” A few students laugh. “It’s—I’ll be careful, so no need to worry. I'll just—don't mind me. I'll be on my way.”

He finds footholds secure enough to hold his weight and inches down, hands leaving the windowsill and grasping at stone to the best of their ability. There is instant chatter from above.

He's beginning the climb down the outer wall when he remembers his manners. He pops back up, startling Ms. Goldstein and the class into silence. “I, ah, apologize for my disruption of your class. I'll try to refrain from—I mean to say—it won't happen again.” He nods at the students behind her, noting a few that are in his afternoon class. “Goodbye.”

* * *

 Newt doesn't catch his niffler.

Instead, he slips and falls from the lowest window and has to explain to the groundskeeper why his prize-winning Alihotsy shrubs are misshapen and destroyed.

* * *

 Third week into the school year and he finally gets to more interesting subjects with his classes. Reading about creatures and their biology was all well and fine, but even Newt is not ignorant enough to mistake what truly draws people to his field of expertise: the creatures, wild and exotic, and, more specifically, the prospect of gaining hands-on experience with them.

A word to Headmistress Peregrine leads him to a scowling pukwudgie who shows him to the darker parts of the wilderness north of the school. There, he meets a herd of thestrals, bigger and taller than those in England. They take to him wonderfully.

Naturally, he introduces them to his classes the following week.

“Now,” he starts once they’ve reached the edge of the clearing, “who of you can see them?”

The herd is meandering about on the other side, handling the appearance of newcomers better than most creatures Newt’s dealt with—certainly better than his mother’s hippogriffs. They creep closer to where he stands ahead of his class, interested in the bucket he’s carrying. Most of them are fully grown, only two or three foals flapping about the overgrown grass, but the promise of possible food can make any creature, young and old, more compliant and charming.

Less than a handful of students raise their hands, sending hesitant looks to their fellow classmates, who, for all purposes, look utterly confused as he strokes the thestral’s flank. Newt’s lips twist in a semblance of a smile.

“For those of you who, ah, cannot see—what I have here is a thestral.”

A good majority shuffle uncomfortably, making eye contact with their neighbors in a rather concerned sideways glance.

“I assure you all that there is indeed a creature here.”

The thestral shakes its head, unfurling its wings in a stretch. Leather skin scrapes along itself like sandpaper, producing a sound that has his back muscles tensing involuntarily. His students must hear it, too, because many of them jump.

Newt reaches out and gently strokes the beast’s neck, soothing the creature.

“Uh, Professor…”

“Yes, Miss Stone.”

The girl, tall and dark, looks uncomfortable. She fiddles with her pen, twisting it around her fingers in constant, rapid succession. “Why can only some of us see the threstral.”

“Thestral,” he corrects patiently. He reaches down and shifts the bucket of meat he had prepared earlier closer. “And the reason for that is because they can only be seen by a person who has witnessed death or come to terms with it.” He catches sight of his student, Gilbert, staring at him apprehensively, as if he would dare lie about such a thing. Gilbert, as Newt had begun to observe over the month, read lips better than his hearing students, but was always adamant on understanding each creature that was brought up in class and required more evidence than the rest.

“How can we know what you’re saying is true?”

To convince him and the lot, Newt decided a visual demonstration could speak for itself. Keeping his face neutral, he offers the skeletal creature a chunk of raw meat, pulling his fingers back so as to escape possible laceration; a few students jerk at the food’s disappearance, watching with morbid fascination as drops of blood fall from the thestral’s hooked mouth and onto his forearm. Gilbert seems satisfied with the evidence.

“A very ghoulish concept, I know—one of the reasons they're seen as, well, bad omens. It is all based on silly superstition, though, for they are quite gentle and sociable when trained. They're not particularly violent, but will attack when threatened—as will most creatures really—whether it be to themselves, the herd, or even their trainers.” He absently wipes his hand on his trousers. “There have been cases of thestrals adopting humans into their herds and, under acts of severe loyalty, attempting to protect them from these perceived threats.”

“Have you been adopted?” The question comes from a petite blonde who flushes when he looks to her. “By a herd, I mean.”

“Ah, no, I have not. The last herd I was in contact with was many years ago at Hogwarts and they, well, they're bred for a very specific use and the current trainer did not—wasn't, er, welcome to others stepping in… I, hm, yes.”

They must sense his discomfort, for the same girl steps forward with another inquiry. “What do you use them for at Hogwarts?”

“Brilliant question! While first-years take boats from the train to Hogwarts, fifth-years take carriages. Most students believe that they pull themselves…” He trails a single finger down the creature’s spine, giving a small smile when he's rewarded by a shrill neigh of appreciation. “It is to be expected, however. Not many have come to terms with death and likely will not until they are older.”

“And what about you, Professor?”

“Sorry?”

“Who'd you see die?” The question is blunt, but he expects nothing less from these Americans.

Nonetheless, he's taken aback, utterly unprepared to even begin thinking about an appropriate answer. His mind snaps back to a moment not so far away, where he kneels in hot, desert sand and the sun beats mercilessly upon his back. He remembers eyes, dark and full of fear, staring back and how dirty fingers reach out to him seconds before the world explodes in a mess of pain and shadows.

“—amander?”

He presses his lips into a thin line, eyes flickering toward the group and back to the opaque eyes of the Thestral. “An eight-year old Sudanese girl who didn't deserve what she was given.”

The thestral shakes its head, thin mane cutting through the air like the blade of a guillotine. Its sharp shoulder bumps into his and he forces himself to focus on the sinew of muscle and tissue stretched over a protruding bone. The creature is a constant reminder of his failures, just a hair’s breadth away from succumbing to the overwhelming drag, but Newt doesn't have the heart to blame it.

It cannot help its nature—just as Newt cannot help his.

He smiles to cover the painful lurch of his heart, knowing that it is too brittle to be anything close to alright. He claps his hands together, making them all jump, and pushes forward with a singular focus. The dead are gone and the living need his attention.

“Would anyone like a try at feeding?”

* * *

 Despite his dislike of favoritism, Newt finds he’s unconsciously taken to one of his classes. A mix between Wampus and Thunderbird, they're a rowdy bunch of twenty always having a thought that needs to be said, an opinion that can't go unexpressed and an inquisition that requires constant stimulation.

He studies them like his creatures observing their habits and social standing. Like his mother’s herd, there's a hierarchy similar to most creatures, rules and etiquette he must follow; who decides what can and cannot be said. These are all things he must know to survive and live efficiently and symbiotically beside these Americans.

Hogwarts and Ilvermorny students are regular children and children have their own social circles. They act as rings, Newt believes, with the closest friends in the center, the lesser known acquaintances scattered more and more the further the circle expands. Housemates by definition are in the inner circles, alongside family, distant friends and most adults taking up space in the farther rings.

Newt believes his designated spot is somewhere in the outer rings, not fully residing in the circle, but rather flitting in and out. The children seem to allow this, not fully inviting him, but not pushing him out, and he makes sure not to breach this allowance. They don't trade secrets (gossip and rumors are the only exception), nor do they divulge in personal matters (his suitcase remains only a suitcase), and yet, despite this, Newt finds he knows more about them than he ever did his Hogwarts classmates.

There's Alma, who can't stand the sight of the insides of a flobberworm. Benjamin and Aubrey are superb writers, but have trouble distinguishing different breeds of puffskeins. Leonard can make any argument turn into a debate whereas Marjorie tries to make every debate into an argument, so the two clash leading Bernice to play moderator. Mildred is the unofficial leader, Eustace her right-hand man. Walter and Emil are best mates, the former having something of a rivalry with Christopher. Marina and Delilah are twins, giggly and petite, while Thomas has an younger brother in Horned Serpent. Charles is known to be a Beater who plays rough, but surprisingly very protective of Gilbert, who fancies Harriet. Newt thinks Blanche has a bright future in Herbology and Willis in Potions, and that Estelle has utterly no interest in his class and anything he has to say.

Every passing day he catalogues new information—social ticks that set these children apart from the rest.

And he's learning as well. Never before had he considered himself professor material and transitioning from self-proclaimed Magizoologist to an instructor is a difficult process, one filled with trial and error. There's homework and reading assignments that he has to make (almost as boring as his paperwork at his desk job at the Ministry), rules he has to inflict on the students and abide by himself, and he has to keep reminding himself not leave his students alone unless he wishes to come back to a ravaged room. He can’t scrounge around his case if he’s missing something or make a quick check-up in the middle of the day, nor can he let his mind wander when teaching.

He'll forget one tiny bit of detail and then the whole class will smell like rotten eggs or someone's desk will be covered in purple goop that won't come off no matter how hard one scrubs. (He got in particular trouble with the poor Pukwudgie that had to scrape it by hand.)

More often than not, most of his exciting or strange experiences happen during that class. Newt battles with a stray limax during one of his scavenging trips into the forest, brandishing nothing more than a pair of tongs as he calls for his companions to take their wares and run. There's the incident with the fire-crabs, multiple students with inflicted with burns, only it pales in comparison to the fiasco with the gnomes (which they’ve all been sworn into secrecy). So much happens in such little time that Newt begins to look forward to seeing his students, all of his students, putting more and more effort into their lessons.

And so, when they come across the topic of hippogriffs, he's not surprised at the dejectedness they feel discovering the school stables are currently empty and have been so for years.

He has memories of clinging to his mother's skirts while she went through her daily chores in the pastures; the first hatching, nests once so quiet suddenly bursting with noise, and wet, slick hatchlings stumbling out and eating their first rat; his first ride over the dense forest that surrounds their home, with the wind hitting his face and the beat of the wings reverberating in his ears. They're his fondest memories—parts of his life he'd never want to give away for all the gold in the world.

And so he writes a letter to his mother.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _vicissitude - n. a change of circumstances or fortune, typically one that is unwelcome or unpleasant_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, this is so late! I've been busy with life and whatnot- not to mention I've been constantly changing the contents of the chapter, so it's been slow progress with it!

Out of all the courtyards Ilvermorny has to offer, there's only one Newt’s remotely interested in.

It's not the biggest, nor is it the grandest. It is a simple thing, a square piece of land located near the edge of the school. At its center, a large Snakewood tree.

Unlike the courtyards at Hogwarts, which are plain and mostly barren excluding a bench or two, Ilvermorny makes even the smallest garden look like a landscaping masterpiece, bursting with color and different species of plants. But, where the rest of the courtyard is impeccable and appealing, the tree is not. It looks to have never been pruned, its branches just as gnarled and thick as its roots, breaking out of the stone path and spreading out to intertwine with the neighboring plants. With its flaking bark and ugly burls at its base, it reminds Newt of a senior outliving the younger generation out of spite.

Despite the oddity of the snakewood, it's not the sole reason he's interested with this courtyard. Rather, it's the creature that resides in it.

He's learned that the pukwudgies are less submissive and subservient than house elves, grouchy to a touch past extreme. They take care of the school, somehow popping up right when needed, but rarely stay long enough to chat. Not since his first day at Ilvermorny has he spoken with one and ask about the myths that surround their species, but, within this courtyard, he's found one that keeps to a schedule without fault.

Its hair is peppered, dominatingly white around its ears, and its skin looks to be pulled so tight every angle on its face is exaggerated tenfold. Like the rest Newt’s seen, it also wears breeches, only it has a sash of animal skin doubled over it.

He walks up beside it. “Hello.”

It doesn’t respond, ignoring him in favor of magicking the snow away from the path surrounding the tree, hands orchestrating an imaginary symphony with ever slow flick of the wrist. From there it shuffles away to the hedges, trimming them with a snap of its fingers.

Newt follows, undeterred. “I always see you here tending to the tree or shining the founder statues.”

Still, the pukwudgie doesn't respond. It leaves him to walk around the tree, peering up at the branches with an analytical stare. Newt follows its line of sight and spots a nest of Woodpeckers. It mutters to itself; another snap and the nest gently floats down and into the pukwudgie’s bony hands, who then nestles it into the quills of its hair. The baby birds trill at Newt, begging for food he doesn’t have.

As the pukwudgie goes on with its chores, Newt steps closer to the snakewood and the simple plaque at its base. A quick read of the words tell of the good and bad of Salazar Slytherin and Newt wonders about the history behind it. No doubt it's merely a small piece of a bigger story.

He knows a bit about Ilvermorny’s history, the basic story of its founder, the rest easily read from the many books the library has to offer about this particular subject. Escaping England, surviving in pre-colonial American wilderness, building a school from the ground up, Isolt Sayre sounded just as astounding as the Hogwarts founders.  

“Incredible woman.” He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but there it goes, following the breeze and brushing up against hard bark.

“She was,” comes the gruff voice.

Newt startles. The pukwudgie stands to his right, hands in its pockets. He could've sworn it was across the yard on his left, bending over a pair of shrubs that shivered and cooed under attention. “You knew her, did you?”

The creature scoffs and, wonders of wonder, continues to speak. “Impossible. I'd be over three centuries old. Don't you wizards know how to count time?”

Newt finds himself laughing. “I suppose we don't. We seem to lose it so often.”

The pukwudgie grimaces and Newt supposes that is the closest to a smile it can express.

He presses on, taking the moment for what it is—an opportunity. He must tread lightly however, for he doesn’t want to scare off the only potential lead he has for his research. _Start small_ , instructs a voice that sounds unnervingly like his brother’s, _be casual_. “I don't mean to pry, but I've been wondering… why haven't I heard of any students coming to your kind for advice. It seems to me that you lot have much to offer. You've lived here for countless years—know the school better than anyone else.”

The pukwudgie takes the small talk in stride. “I think it has something to do with my less-than-welcoming attitude.”

“I find you attitude quite enjoyable—certainly better than what I've encountered.” Newt keeps his tone sprightly, habitually bobbing his head from side to side. The encounter has been dominantly light in spirit, far better than his usual conversations, and he intends to maintain it. “I generally don’t get on the best side of a lot of people, so this is a nice change of pace.”

“Do you think buttering me up with flattery will get you anywhere, Englishman?”

He pauses, mouth already half open with a wry comeback. “How do you know I'm English?”

“Your accent gives it away. None of the younger folk talk like you. You speak proper-like.”

“So you've heard it before. Might I ask from whom?”

“No.” A stilted silence and then, “An old friend.”

“An incredible woman?” he asks, lips quirking.

“Impossible,” it says.

Newt smiles. “Quite right.” Pickett squeaks in his pocket, reminding him of the time. He has an afternoon class in twenty minutes. “Well, I must be off. It's was nice meeting you, Mister…”

“You’ll not get a name from me, Englishman. Call me what you like.”

“Very well,” he says. He pretends to ponder, weighing his next move before continuing with a casual, “You seem like a William. Very strong, that name—quite a story behind it, too, I'd wager. How about it?”

“That is... acceptable,” the pukwudgie says with another grimace-smile and, if Newt didn't know any better, he would label the sparkle in those dark eyes as amusement. He congratulates himself on doing his research before seeking the creature out, lucky that he had come across a description of a particular Pukwudgie that had been like a father to a lost, orphan girl and bared the name of one.

“Wonderful. Well, William, may I come and visit again? Tomorrow perhaps?”

“If you must.”

Newt feels his smile stretch impossibly wider. “Excellent. I shall bring tea and biscuits.”

Before he even has time to think of the proper way to make an exit, the pukwudgie is turning on the stone, its quilled back to him. “Do me a favor, Englishman. Catch your niffler before it ruins the gardens with its holes.”

“My nif—” he starts, confused, until his brain catches on. He spins and, there in the shrubs, he spots the pilfering pest burrowing in the newly turned dirt.

As if sensing his stare, his niffler freezes in its digging. Slowly, it turns to look at him and Newt can only raise his eyebrows. There's a pause between them and then-

It bolts.

Newt takes after it without hesitation.

“I'm sorry—” He stops, turns back to the courtyard to apologize, only to realize the Pkukwudgie is no longer there. He remains for a moment, shrugs, and sets off again.

There's no chance of losing his niffler, not when it leaves a muddy track to follow, the corridors leading from the courtyard to the rest of the school only occupied by a few groups of students. They hastily step aside as he passes and Newt doesn't bother with their chatter, nor does he take the advice of the vocal portraits he passes by.

He inhales sharply when it takes a sharp turn into the Hall.

The number of students within are more than he’d like (study period, most likely), but he doesn’t have the time to have them evacuated from the Hall. Time is of essence if he’s to recapture his niffler, especially one so evasive.

“Excuse me, pardon—so sorry—”

He dives between two benches and grabs at the niffler. It dodges his hand and scurries further down the table, weaving between chairs and student’s legs. Newt follows. Girls and boys shout, jumping back and out of their seats—a good decision seeing as it gives Newt more room to move. The space beneath the tables are confining and he's not as small as he used to be, so he's at a disadvantage, but he's nothing if determined.

“Professor!”

“Sorry—” A few benches clatter when they fall and he bangs his shoulder, then his head, as he tries to maneuver in the cramped space.

“Hey! My necklace!”

There's a scream and Newt pops out from underneath the table just in time to see his niffler crawl out of a girl's hair and fall into her bowl of berries. It pops out a richer blue than before and every student nearby keeps clear as it topples out.

“That’s quite enough,” he says as it slips a rather elegant spoon into its pouch. It's a cheeky fellow, he gives it that.

This continues down the aisle until there's no more table for his niffler to run along. They've left an absolute mess in their wake, broken dishwares littering the ground alongside books and papers. Newt trips over someone's bag.

Instead of admitting defeat, it evades Newt once again and leaps to the curtains hanging by the door. It's aiming for another impossible escape, Newt’s sure of it; if it manages to get to the balcony, it’ll succeed and he'll lose it in the wilderness. It’s anyone’s guess when he would catch wind of it next—a few days, a fortnight, months?

That is why he climbs after it, he’ll reason later. One good thing from the hall being overly extravagant, the walls are decorated enough to give him stable holds to scale up them easily, then it's only a matter of jumping to the curtains.

“Come here, you little pest!” Students call up to him, some worried while others laugh. “It's fine— _bugger, will you stop_ —everything's completely alright. There's absolutely nothing you need to worry about.”

The words are spoken too soon it seems, a loud _riiiipppp_ sounding out just as he realizes his mistake. He falls with a yell, taking his niffler and the drapes down with him.

There's a moment where he is shrouded in darkness, limbs flailing as he struggles to fight off the strangling grip of thick fabric. Tassels flick him in the face imperiously and the threads hiss angrily at the damage he's inadvertently done, but he persists, popping out of the mess and breathing sweet freedom once again. His niffler takes one look at him and makes a break for itself towards a table on the opposite side of the Hall. The curtains try to pull him down, but Newt escapes and throws himself back into the chase.

Having Dougal within his case for as long as he has has made Newt more than proficient at capturing the notorious escapees that reside his case. “ _Accio!_ ” A bowl flies into his hand even as he slashes his wand forward and up. The far end of the table bends upward, curling like the beginnings of roll. The students sitting there are caught by surprise and slip from their seats, as does his niffler. Perfect.

He slams the bowl down, trapping the little bugger. It begins to slip through the infinitesimal space between the rim and wood as Newt knew it would and he grabs the scruff of its neck before it can escape again.

“How many time do I have to tell you? Paws off what’s not yours.”

The little creature struggles to break free, but he’s having none of it. He empties its pouch, shaking for good measure. Coins rain down, silver and gold clinking into a pile on the floor, spoons, watches, lockets, pens, even some sickles and knuts among the hoard. American currency, muggle and wizard, is still confusing to Newt, but he assumes that what he has at his feet is a quite the amount if he goes by the gasps of the students.

By the end of it, he has a glittering pile that reaches his calves and a mess of a hall. His niffler flails in his hands, reaching longingly for the treasure.

“No,” he says, uncurling the table and setting the benches back where they belong. The rest of the hall is set back into order with a flick of his wand, ripped curtains and all. “ _Repario._ ”

Just as he's debating what spell to use to return the stolen item he hears a pointed cough. The Hall grows quiet and Newt turns.

Ms. Goldstein frowns from the double doors, unhappy.

“Bugger,” he mutters to himself.

* * *

 Newt shifts from foot to foot, uncomfortable.

Ms. Goldstein side-eyes him, arms crossed and oozing judgement. She'd wordlessly led him from the hall, military march and all, through the parts of the school Newt's less acquainted with. A haggle of students had watch the walk of shame in progress, thankfully skipping out of sight with a single look from his personal drill sergeant.

Eventually, he had been led to a decently sized room; along its walls were framed certificates and rules of the school, meticulously positioned to better enunciate the polished trophies and medals on display in the long glass cabinets. At the center, a large, spiral staircase that had rotated at a slow, constant pace, rising up to disappear in the artificial night sky that made up the room’s ceiling. It had branched off as it climbed, smaller staircases reaching out to the walls and sweeping past the dozens of doorways that lined along each of the staggering levels. Newt had craned his neck to view the underside of the rumbling stone as Ms. Goldstein pushed him along, fascinated, wondering how he’d managed to go so long without ever stepping foot in the room before. She didn't slow, giving him no time to fully take in the sight, ushering him along to a door at ground level.

Through there they had emerged to a familiar corridor, at its end a door where they now stood. Engraved on the door of the Headmistress’s office, the body of a rearing griffin, proud and powerful.

“Blatherskite,” Ms. Goldstein tells the creature. The griffin eyes them both haughtily, but nonetheless bows its head, splitting along with the door to allow them entrance.

This isn't the first time Newt’s found himself in the Headmistress’s office, but the room seems larger and more foreboding than the few times he's visited. Large and circular, it's as grand as the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts. Portraits of past headmasters lines the walls, dozing, beyond them a smaller entryway that leads to what Newt assumes is a personal library. Even the fireplace, with crackling flames and warm glow, isn't as calming as it once was.

Ms. Goldstein pushes him further into the room, getting the attention of the four people within. Newt recognizes Headmistress Peregrine, while the other three are unfamiliar to him, but from their dress he deduces that they must be aurors sent from MACUSA.

Growing up with Theseus has taught Newt the difference between a subordinate and a leader, the presence and stance of a person enough to tell where they belonged and what levels of authority they resided in, and, just as his brother was a leader, so was the auror closest to the Headmistress. The man, dressed in a fitted ensemble and an undercut, stared at Newt with a blank expression that has him suddenly reminded of the “kill on sight” protocol for magical creatures in America. His stomach rolls in apprehension.

Headmistress Peregrine sets down her papers, her expression enough to tell Newt that she’s already aware of what's happened. “Will you leave us, Tina?”

Ms. Goldstein nods and, with a final stare at Newt, leaves the room.

“Anything else, Headmistress?”

The voice comes from a pukwudgie standing beside the ornate desk at which Headmistress Peregrine sits, the spikes of its hair barely seen over the sleek desk. Newt wonders how he didn't see it the moment he walked in.

“No. That will be all. Thank you, Clementine.”

The Pukwudgie nods and, without bidding the rest of the occupants farewell, walks past Newt without so much a glance (he spots an old-fashioned pipe, like the one his father used to smoke, tangled in its hair). He snaps back to attention when someone clears their throat.

“I take it you know why you're here, Mr. Scamander?”

“Yes.”

Headmistress Peregrine catches his glances at the other occupants, mainly at the man beside her. “Mr. Scamander, this is Mr. Graves. He is the head of our security while the aurors are stationed at Ilvermorny.”

The man inclines his head at her words. “I'm here because I have concerns for the near-situation your creature caused.”

Newt tucks his chin. “I took care of—”

“Are you aware that Ilvermorny has a strict policy concerning magical creatures, Mr. Scamander?” the head auror says suddenly.

He isn't. “Yes, I'm aware.”

“No magical creatures—unless those brought to the attention of the headmaster or headmistress—are permitted in fear of the students’ safety.” Newt can only look at the toes of his boots as the man goes on. “If you knew this, then why did you see fit to permit one onto school grounds, fully knowing that it could bring possible harm to the students?”

“It's a niffler. I was planning on showing it to my students. It's only found in England, so—”

“That wasn't the question, Mr. Scamander.”

“Well, you see, ah—it escaped—”

“It escaped,” Headmistress repeats, eyebrow raised.

“Yes, it escaped, but I was more than capable of capturing it.”

Mr. Graves looks like he doesn't believe Newt. “That didn't stop it from causing a scene in the hall—which was filled with students.” His niffler peeks out from his jacket, catching everyone's attention. “That's the little fellow, I take it.”

Newt tucks the creature tighter into the safety of his jacket. “It wouldn't harm a student. It's a thief, not a predator.”

“Nonetheless, it still caused mayhem in the school.” Here, the auror looks to the headmistress. “I believe it would be for the student body's best interest if Mr. Scamander remain confined to a room in the teachers’ housing offered by the school when not teaching. I’m willing to have one of my aurors shadow him during his classes so that another incident like this won't occur.”

His niffler sniffs the buttons of his waistcoat, unconcerned. Newt, on the other hand, tenses, not liking where the conversation is going—what it might mean for the creature in his arms. “There was no danger—”

“His creature should be dealt with in a similar manner—”

Newt feels heat crawl up his neck. “It’s not dangerous!”

The Headmistress holds up a hand for silence. “While I do appreciate the offer, Mr. Graves, this is a school, not a prison. Instead, Mr. Scamander will get off with a warning.”

His relief is palpable. His niffler was safe. “Thank you, Headmistress.”

“That doesn't mean you won't be reprimanded, Mr. Scamander. Mr. Graves and his team are here to offer protection, not look after faculty. As such, I will be having your class be under supervision—effective immediately.”

Newt bites back the retort that’s on the tip of his tongue. People at the Ministry had let him be for the most part, so the need for supervision was going to be exasperating and unnecessary.

His distaste for the idea must have shown on his face because Headmistress continues. “If you'd rather go with Mr. Graves’s proposal, then, by all means, take it—but I assure you that my offer is the better option. I will not have you and your creature run amok in my school. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Scamander?”

He keeps his gaze firmly on her desk. “Perfectly.”

“Good.” Headmistress Peregrine stares him down, either ignorant or uncaring of the silence that settles over the room. It's almost as if she's demanding acknowledgement like his Hogwarts teachers once did. She waves an elegant hand. “Have a wonderful day, Mr. Scamander.”

Knowing when he's been dismissed, Newt murmurs a farewell and hurriedly escapes. The door shuts solidly behind him, the griffin melded to the stone nipping at him when he tries to lean against it. The hallway alongside the office is empty, no students or ghosts around. Even Ms. Goldstein is long gone.

Newt releases the breath he was holding. “Now look what you've done.”

His niffler ignores him. It pats its empty pouch, whining. A few day's worth of adventure and it doesn't have anything to show for it, not even a knut to add to its collection.

Newt doesn't last a second.

He pulls a galleon from his pocket. Like a child presented with a new toy, the niffler reaches out, begging. “No more sneaking off,” he tells it with a stern look, handing the coin over. “I don't want to be kicked out when I've only just gotten here—all because you can't control yourself.”

The creature inspects the coin, making a pleased snort when the light of the floating lanterns reflects off its surface and into Newt’s face. The man shakes his head with familiar exasperation, wondering why he even tries, and tucks the small thing more closely to his side, setting down the hall.

He has a class to teach.

* * *

 Newt tells his creatures of the world outside.

Dougal seems to enjoy hearing him talk about strange American customs, while the occamy are interested in anything to do with his students, though that might just be because he makes smoky figures in the air for them to follow intensely. He tells Frank of the many portraits of his kind, how they differ in style and color (Newt had been surprised and amused to find one in the mensroom). His mooncalves sway to his drawn out descriptions of the grounds, humming around him as he reclines in the grass.

He talks and talks, and talks some more. He talks until there are no more words, no more frustrations concerning MACUSA and prying strangers. And, eventually, his talk leads him to research.

Like always, Bestarium Magicum offers not a slick of help. It’s descriptions of North American creatures are severely lacking, only offering a name, a basis description, and the standard Ministry rating, whilst some creatures that Newt _knows_ exists are not even mentioned in the book. His curiosities are left unfulfilled and he’s greedy for knowledge of some kind. So, he searches the more general books he managed to find in Ilvermorny’s library, one or two of them referencing a creature fleetingly (except those concerning the Great Sasquatch Revolt of 1892, which is surprisingly informative). It's not much to work with, but he does the best he can.

“I’ll have to come back for the second edition,” he tells Dougal after another near-death experience from the library, the book snapping at him when he had complained about its inaccuracies; his little and index finger are wrapped in bandages, the cuts too small to warrant use of a healing draught. “It’d be a shame to leave these Americans ignorant in more things than etiquette—the creatures deserve better.”

The primate chitters in agreement.

 _And it would be beneficial to the students,_ he thinks. He couldn't let an entire continent of children learn from a curriculum that was entirely misinformed, much less his students, some who'd shown real progress and interest in the subject. He’d come back in search of more creatures, material for his book, nothing more.

Still, it's only when he catches himself humming the tune of Ilvermorny’s very own song to his unicorns that he starts to wonder how far this influence will bleed.

He finds that he doesn't mind too much.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _monachopsis - n. the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JFC, this thing took too long! I don't know why, but I struggled with the dialogue in this chapter, so I hope it turned out OK.

His little show with his niffler puts him in a tight spot with the MACUSA agents stationed at the school.

He expected it once Headmistress Peregrine had issued his penalty, grown accustomed with their scrutiny, but the extent of the change is drastic; they've gone from eyeing him from the shadows to staring him down in plain view. The amount of suspicion he's given is quite astounding, not to mention the constant watch they have on him, at least one pair of eyes following him as he makes his way through Ilvermorny halls.

They remind him of the students from his time at Hogwarts, the ones who went out of their way to make his days less than wonderful in any way they could, and while he didn't have a problem with the ones who ignored him entirely, his—what he can now call without a doubt—bullies were absolute _gits_. Although the aurors aren't actively tripping him or spilling his ink all over his homework, or even slipping his namesake into his pillow sheets, Newt expects it every time he walks into a room, paranoid that the cycle of torment will start up again.

It's all quite frustrating. If not for his low temperament and his desire to refrain from drawing attention, he might've made a rude comment at their incessant scrutiny, or else snuck two or three doxies into their coats. Insulting an American auror wouldn't help his predicament, but it would bring him some personal satisfaction, if only a little.

Despite Headmistress Peregrine’s insistence that he wouldn't be shadowed, Newt still feels paranoid; without any more solid evidence to back up their suspicion, the aurors’ hands were tied, but he'd grown up in a Ministry-orientated household and an auror brother, so he knew that there were always other methods of surveillance. He'd gotten off with a warning, not a federal notice, and he would be treated as any full-time faculty would, not as a criminal. None of the agents, not even the head auror, Percival Graves, could argue with her, _publicly_.

Speaking of, Mr. Graves is serious man, one that Newt sees sparingly and does his very best to avoid. There isn't any indication that the man is out to get him, but, nonetheless, he feels highly uncomfortable when he senses the other’s presence. He'd all but demanded his niffler to be confiscated and is the reason Newt had to deal with the second-to-worst punishment of being supervised.

The need of having an attendee during his class is both bothersome and interesting. Interesting when he purposely discusses the more vulgar aspects of mating rituals to try and get a response from the aurors when they _coincidently_ pass by, but entirely inconvenient when Newt must excuse himself to the loo just to check up on his creatures in between classes. He’s never dealt well with authority and it shows.

Ms. Goldstein is far more preferable, though she does asks questions that he'd rather not answer.

“Where are you keeping your creature?” she’d ask, or, “How did it get loose?” and always, “Why did you allow it to escape on school grounds?”

He’s learned to parrot evasive answers back at her, which only seems to make her more watchful, shoving decorum aside to uncover the truth behind his mishap. They’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, he’s sure of it, from the odd first meeting to the Niffler fiasco, everything painting a less than appealing picture of his character, and now Newt’s beyond understanding her. A part of him is impressed by her devotion, her detective nature, only its squashed by her pestering and grumpy attitude. She’s not an auror, but she might as well be.

At least she can’t question him during his classes, or else is too polite to do so in front of the students. His teaching isn’t in question, so there’s that small relief; he wouldn’t know what he’d do if he had someone critiquing him in his own field.

There are a few whispers here and there with the supervision, but nothing major, and certainly nothing he can’t handle. Thankfully, his students haven’t done anything in response to the rumors whispered about him, refraining from discussing his slap on the wrist by the Headmistress.

“What's on the menu today, professor?” Eugene asks once the whole class has taken their seats.

“Well, I thought we might, ah, spice things up today.” He shakes his hands when a few kids take out their parchment and pens. “No, you won't be needing any supplies. Today's lesson will be more interactive than usual.”

His students perk up at that and it warms his heart to see such enthusiasm; he wishes it had been like this when he was younger. Maybe he wouldn't have been so alone if it had.

“We're going to be learning the mating dance of the erumpent.”

There's a moment of silence as his student take in his words, staring blankly. Eventually, a few let out awkward laughs, thinking he’s joking. He isn't and proves so when he marches out to the clearing just outside the hall, where the ground is free of the beginnings of frost and ice, his class following reluctantly behind. Ms. Goldstein lags further at the back.

“Come now everyone, space yourselves out. You're going to need room.” He waves a hand when they shuffle about, moving within their own, individual spheres of space and getting them nowhere.

He half turns to Mrs. Goldstein and asks, “And will you be joining us?”

“Hm, what?” The woman blinks rapidly and, when comprehending his words, blanches, quickly raising her hands and shaking them. “Oh! No, no, no, I don't—it's best if I—no, no thank you.”

Newt expects the decline, only offering out of courtesy to include everyone, but it slightly put out. It would’ve been great fun to watch the stern woman loosen up a bit. No matter, he'll just have to expend more focus onto his students.

He gets into a crouch and, reluctantly, they follow to do the same. Together they go through a series of steps, stomping forward only to dance back. He can only assume what they might look like to anyone who should happen to enter the room, thirty some individuals loping around with their posteriors raised to the heavens; with the lack of finesse his students are showcasing, not even a desperate erumpent would turn their way.

“We're doing this,” Leonard says, laughing in disbelief. “We're really doing this.”

Already more than half his class is too busy making fun of the tutorial, and Newt finds he's glad he omitted the verbal aspect of the dance. “Now, does anyone remember our lesson on the erumpent? How many subspecies are there?”

“Six!”

“Four!”

Mildred kicks Walter in the shin when he hobbles a little too close and he goes down. She doesn't bat an eyelash when she meets Newt’s amused gaze. “No, three!”

“Three, yes. Very good,” he says, watching her light up at the praise. “Their mating rituals differ slightly—almost indistinguishable. I, myself, still have trouble.”

When he makes the curvy line in the dirt, there are more giggles. And when he turns on his foot, bracing his hands on his thighs, he knows he won’t be able to continue on with the lecture normally. Newt falls into a perfect roll, catching the eye of Ms. Goldstein across the room. Her eyes crinkle, a tell tale sign of the smile she is trying to hide behind her hand.

Maybe she's warming up to him.

“This is ridiculous,” Delilah says.

“I feel ridiculous,” Christopher agrees from behind her, immediately throwing himself down onto the ground in a less than perfect roll.

Newt straightens. “Yes, it is quite absurd, isn't it? Now you all continue practicing.”

He leaves his students to stand at the edge of clearing, watching them try their very best to mimic the grace of an erumpent. To be honest, he’s finding it all very enjoyable. The number of wizards that know of the dance are few and in between, so to have a class of twenty-five partaking in it is a sight he’d never thought he’d ever see.

“Tell me, Mr. Scamander,” says a voice. “What does an erumpent mating dance have to do with O.W.Ls?”

Ms. Goldstein stands beside him, dressed in her thick, grey coat, her nose turning pink from the chilly air. Newt didn’t hear her come up, much less expect her to willingly speak to him. It's a deviation from the norm and he’s momentarily startled. “Sorry?”

“Shouldn’t you be preparing them for their O.W.Ls? Unless this is somehow related…”

“Oh, this has nothing to do with their exams,” he says. “We've been cramming lesson after lesson on those MACUSA creature guidelines. It's all rubbish and dreadfully boring, mind you, so I thought a free day was well-deserved.”

He’d been determined to educate them properly, practically doubling the curriculum once he’d found out how none of them could even cure a crup of a simple cold. To think that they’d been allowed to be taught such inadequate knowledge, treating beasts like nuisances, only fit for extermination. He should have guessed from the start, what with Bestarium Magicum as a main text source.

Obviously, he’d jumped head first into educating them properly, doubling the material they went over. Most of the time, less than half his audience follows his words when he goes off about his creatures, even more depending on which class he had that day, but he'd gotten his teachings through more or less.

Ms. Goldstein accepts his answer with only a little surprise and they watch the students in silence. It’s a comfortable silence, one that soothes the mind and relaxes the muscles.

“Not the worst mating ritual I’ve witnessed,” he murmurs from the side of his mouth after a minute.

Now it’s Ms. Goldstein’s turn to be surprised. She turns toward him, interested. “Oh really?”

He nods, leaning against a nearby tree. “Diricawls have something similar. The males will perform for the female a hundred-and-forty-eight-step dance on the highest peak they can find. It involves a lot of flapping and noise—it’s such a shame their calls are less than pleasant.”

“Sounds ridiculous.”

Though he agrees, he counters with a, “No more ridiculous than human mating rituals.”

“We don’t—well, I suppose dinner, dancing, and a walk under the stars could be considered part of a ritual.”

Another lapse, only this time Newt’s acutely aware of it.

At the opposite side of the group Charles begins to throw pinecones at other students, but he stops once he catches Newt looking in his direction, motioning for Gilbert and Estelle to get up from where they lounge on the grass. They join the rest of the class, albeit less enthusiastic.

“Ms. Goldstein—” he starts just as Ms. Goldstein says, “Excuse me if—”

They stop, taken back, and Newt clears his throat. “No, no—you can—”

“Mr. Scamander, excuse me if I’m being impolite, but I would like to know your intentions for being at Ilvermorny.”

He isn't expecting that. “My intentions?”

“Yes.”

“Same as you, I suppose,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I accepted on the behalf of the students here—”

“But you were in New Guinea before coming here, right?”

He nods. “Yes. It was all a last minute arrangement.”

“Tell me, Mr. Scamander. What leads a man who's traveled the world to accept a teaching position? Surely you don't like to be tethered?”

Not a characteristic he would generally apply to himself, but it must fit the bill if Ms. Goldstein is the one giving it. Though he’s never given much thought about how others perceives him, he does so now. Now it's clear that the woman has some suspicions about him and that's not what he needs, not what he wants; it stings just a bit, just like it used to when he was smaller and it was always _Theseus this_ and _Theseus that_ , Newt just an afterthought. He struggles to think of something profound to say, maybe a lie or story that could get her to see what’s truly there, even if he doesn’t necessarily know. But all that comes out is: “I have my students’ best interests in heart.”

She tilts her head. “Why is it that I don’t believe you?”

For reasons he can’t explain, he winces and opens his mouth to respond—

“Professor!” A commotion has him turning, spotting a brawl in the works in the middle of the clearing. Charles and Emil tussle in the dirk, fists closed around shirt fronts and spitting profanities. A hex is cast and Emil’s sleeve catches fire.

Ms. Goldstein is faster than him. With a sharp, “ _Accio!_ ” she has their wands flying to her hand while Newt physically separates the two boys and douses the flame. “Ten points from Thunderbird.”

There's a small argument at the loss, but Ms. Goldstein squashes down any argument with a glare.

The rest of the class proceeds with a less than cheery air.

* * *

One month passes, then three.

Slowly, winter grabs a hold of the mountain, the autumn colors that once spread across the mountainside fading until everything is grey and pale. The air gets a little colder and the ground a little slippier, the trees losing their leaves one by one until they’re barren, skeletons of bark and ice. Snowfall begins in earnest, blanketing every inch of the school, and snowball fights sprout out at any time and with anyone.

Not expecting the weather to turn so suddenly, Newt’s forced to cancel most of the outdoor adventures he’d planned for his classes much to his students’ dismay. Ms. Goldstein remains distant, reverting back to not speaking to him after their last conversation, and Newt’s is both thankful and worried.

He'd been amused by the Hallow’s Eve celebration, students transfiguring themselves to the stereotypical witch that Muggles often viewed them as, warts and all. Pumpkins, more than he can ever recount seeing in one place, carved with grueling faces or wicked grins, had decorate Ilvermorny, and one of the faculty had charmed a tree in each of the halls to drop caramelized apples.

It reminds him of the holidays spent at his childhood home, watching the wilderness surrounding it change from green to orange and brown and taking note of the gnomes borrowing in his mother’s garden. The hippogriffs had always became lackluster during this time, keeping to the stables to ward off the impending cold, but that hadn’t stopped him from spending time with them. His mother had often come marching in, demanding that he come inside and or else catch a cold, and they’d make supper together.

So, Newt isn’t surprised when a little owl nearly knocks over his morning tea, two letters gripped in its small talons. One from his mother and the other from his publisher.

The last letter he’d received from his publisher had been half a year ago, when he was crossing the Indian Ocean, inquiring whether or not he’d been devoured by whatever beast he was researching. He’d responded accordingly, reassuring him that yes, he was still very much alive and yes, he was coming along with his manuscript swimmingly, failing to mention that he’d yet to come up with an actual name for the entire thing, which hadn’t been the top priority at the time.

Now his time is running out.

He’s solely to blame, his desire for solitude so great that he’d made it incapable for any owl to reach him during his travels. Less time he spent communicating with people, the more time he could invest in his research. With his placement at Ilvermorny, he hadn't had time to recast the spell to keep him under the radar and virtually unreachable, so now it looked like people were starting to realize that. He hopes his publisher isn't too annoyed—he’d done the same for everyone else close to him, despite how little a group it was.

The little owl, Bally, hops around his plate, settling on his hand. Even after he snatches the treat Newt offers, he doesn't fly off, but merely stays where he is while Newt looks at his mail.

But, when he does, he frowns. It looks like an ordinary envelope (not a Howler, thankfully), exactly like the others he’d gotten from his publisher, down to the scribbled writing spelling out his name. Except something’s off, he's sure of it.

He examines it, flipping to to view the back. Still nothing out of the ordinary. The lip is firmly pressed when he strokes it, the seal unbroken, and yet Newt’s not satisfied. The letter from his mother is the same, untouched.

Suddenly paranoid, he scans the hall, frowning when he spots a figure slip back into the shadows just as he looks at its direction.

 _That's how it is then_ , he thinks.

* * *

Classes continue on with Ms. Goldstein supervising. And when she has a class of her own, another teacher is there to replace her. A Mrs. Barrow.

Newt would like to say he likes the woman, but then he'd be lying. She's not unpleasant, but her air of sternness throws him off, from her clipped words to her impeccable attire, not a crease in her dress or a dirt smudge on her heels. Most days she sits silently in the corner of the classroom and he’s able to ignore her (similar to how they act during dinners), only to frighten himself when he looks her way and find her staring at him. Once the class is over, she nods her acknowledgment and leaves without a word.

There’s is one pleasantry she has over so many—she uses his name.

The pukwudgies, even those he's never met, refer to him Englishman or Mr. English. It doesn't make sense to him, as he's sure there are others with accents similar to his, students with Scottish and English descents attending the school along others whose family immigrated to America, but he remains the only one labeled by his ancestry.

It isn't mean spirited—at least, he doesn't think it is. There's nothing he can say to have them call him anything other than Englishman; they know his name, he's more than sure of it, but it's more of a preference he supposes. It's uncreative, but not vulgar, so he does nothing to dissuade it.

The paintings are no better.

He doesn't mean to acquaint himself with any of them. Rather, he'd gotten lost on his way from dinner, unable to follow the masses of children exiting the Hall and losing sight of the other professors as they made their way to their common rooms, and found himself being coerced into unwanted conversation.

“You lost, my fellow wizard?”

Newt looks around, startled, until he spots where the voice came from. An old painting with a middle-aged gent, his crisp uniform decorated with glinting medals.

The painting gives him a proper salute. “General Redfield, at your service, Englishman.”

He inclines his head, intent on moving on. “Newt Scamander.”

“Scamander? The war hero? Now I'm sure I've heard the students go on about a man with that name. You're a war hero, are you, Mr. English?”

Newt tucks his chin. “Ah, no. That would be my older brother.”

“Outshined by your older brother! My heart goes to you, Mr. English.” The oil painting snaps his fingers. “But don't you worry! We'll find you a war to prove yourself in!” The man draws himself proudly, wiping away the invisible dirt off his pristine jacket. “I myself have led many men into battle and always came out victorious. Consider my services yours if you require them!”

“That's very kind of you, but I don't think—”

“Nonsense! You'll flourish under my guidance, no doubt about it!”

A group of students laugh as they pass by, heading to what he thinks maybe the Thunderbird tower—or is it the Pukwudgie common room? Asking them for directions would be the best interest for him, if only he could sneak away from the frames long enough to get to them.

General Redfield goes on despite Newt’s wishes. “But first, we must get you where you need to go! What's your desired destination?”

“The cottage on the west end of school grounds.”

“Down the corridor whence you came, Sir,” a lovely woman in an older painting tells him. “Turn left once you get to the Sayre hall and you'll find the path you need.”

General Redfield scoffs. “Excuse me, Lady de Bodel, but I’m quite certain that the Sayre Hall is in the opposite direction. But that’s beside the point. What our gent needs is the Webster Hall.”

“No, the Sayre Hall is in the west and the Webster Hall is to the north!”

“I'm more than positive that that's the Stewart Hall!” another painting calls out, depicting a hunting party, those in the same frame agreeing confidently. The dogs at their feet trot about happily, barking and snuffling about in the quick strokes of grass.

“I'm sure I can find my way myself,” Newt says gently before any more paintings can join in. “No need to go out of your way to help me.”

The noblewoman, Lady de Bodel, waves off his words. “Don’t you worry, Mr. English. It’s no trouble at all.”

General Redfield nods. “The Lady is right. Besides, a newcomer such as yourself wouldn't be able to memorize the school’s layout just yet.”

That spurs the other paintings to speak up at Newt’s defense. One scoffs at the General. “Give him a chance! He won’t learn until he tries is on his own!”

“Just because he has more than three frames around the school, he thinks he’s better than us,” a younger painting says, the oils coloring him not as chipped and cracked. The boy scoffs, tugging his flat cap further down. “You’ll be able to find your way without his help, sir.”

“Yes. Clearly, you are a man of parts.” Lady de Bodel winks at Newt before adjusting her bodice.

Newt refrains from groaning, hoping that someone will come by and save him.

No one comes by and he stays lost for another half hour.

* * *

He gets a letter from his brother a few days later. The message playfully warns him not to scar the American children too much, letting them to leave his class with at least a leg and arm each. _Don’t want them galavanting around the world and taking in precarious beasts, like you_ , his brother writes, his somewhat infuriating charming character etched in every syllable.

Newt’s thankful that there's no mention of his case. He hasn't received many letters, those he's received far from discriminating, but there's no doubt about it. His mail is being read.

The mere thought of it leaves him frustrated. He wonders whether to confront the Headmistress about it, but she had to have agreed to it for Mr. Graves’s men  to even act on their suspicion. However, he can't find it in himself to blame her or anyone besides the aurors; it's only because he knows he has something to hide that he's irritated by the invasion of privacy and overall hinderance. The inconvenience of the guilty.

Instead, he takes matters in his own hands and turns to the only person who won't try and sugarcoat the situation.

That afternoon, he stops Ms. Goldstein from leaving at the end of class, surprising himself when he grabs her wrist. “A word, Ms. Goldstein—if you will.”

He’s held his tongue the entire class, not letting his feelings conflict with his teaching, but, no, once the students have bid him their goodbyes, he decides to be blunt just this once. Manners be damned.

“What is it, Mr. Scamander?” She sounds tired and it almost stops him in his tracks. Almost. “I have a class to teach in fifteen minutes, so if this can wait til—”

“Are all Americans degenerates when it comes to basic civility of society?” That's the not best way to begin a conversation, but he figures it's the quickest to get to what he wants to discuss.

“Excuse me?”

“My mail is being intercepted,” he explains, carefully watching her face. From where she stand by the front row of desks, her coat only halfway on, she’s illuminated by the hanging lanterns. “I wonder, how does one begin to go about invading the fundamental rights of privacy? It must be a conscious choice, especially at such lengths. Do you just decide anyone remotely different must constitute surveillance? And where does that stop? Should I expect my private things to be searched too?”

She grows a little pale. “Why are you telling me this?”

Newt stares at the children visible through the window, playing in the snow up the hill. “I merely thought you could help me. Shed some light as to why I'm such a prime suspect when I've done nothing wrong.”

“Listen, Mr. Scamander. I know it seems more invasive than what you're used to, but all the faculty have had background checks. We're in dangerous times and every precaution has to be made.”

“Then your mail is being read as well then?”

At his words, her expression drops slightly, telling Newt all that he needs to know.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Scamander, I really am. The invasion of privacy is undeserved, but I have to admit I know where they're coming from. You're not from around here and normally keep to yourself—not to mention your unorthodox lectures.”

Student gossip must've reached the aurors. Either that or Ms. Goldstein…

Newt presses his mouth into a thin line. He scrapes the hard wood of his desk with his thumbnail.

Ms. Goldstein continues on. “I think we can both agree that I haven't been the most welcoming towards you and, for that, I’m sorry. But the truth of the matter here is that it doesn’t matter what you or I think of this arrangement. It doesn’t matter because it’s not for our safe of mind, but for the kids’.”

She doesn’t need to elaborate on what exactly they are protecting them from. It’s clear from the lines that draw her face. Grindlewald. Newt turns to stare at the children visible through the window, playing in the snow up the hill. “Anyone with a compelling argument and enough passion can sway a young mind.”

“Yes, they can,” she agrees, stepping closer to stand near his desk while still out of his personal space. “They're young and think they're invincible. To them, this war is an ocean away and doesn't affect them.” She sighs, looking off to the side to obverse the row of plants lined against the windowsill. “I'm trying to keep them safe—and if that means losing a few acquaintances on the way, then so be it.”

“No, no, I understand.” And he does. Manticorns are the same way—sacrifices had to be made, all for the good of the herd. Siblings wouldn't hesitate on turning on each other if one was a liability, a weak link that could detriment the safety of the herd. Ideally, it makes sense. Morally, it just makes him a little queasy. So he takes a deep breath and centers himself. “What do you suggest I do about all this then?”

That snaps her attention back to him. “You're asking me?”

“Yes.”

She leans against the opposite edge of a nearby desk, right by his case, contemplating. Newt prays that nothing inside acts out. “Get out, interact, know who you're working with—don't just sit in the back. Give people a reason to trust you.” She levels him with a stern glare. “And no more escaping creatures.”

“Right.”

He could do it, maybe, blend in and affiliate himself into the population. He’d seen it happen in the wild many times, and, although it would require him to socialize more than he’d like, sacrifices had to be made. The herd had to be protected.

He scratches the back of his head, unsure how to proceed after a conversation like this. His anger barely lingers, more towards the fact he has to fix this mess himself rather than have someone stop it with a word once he's gone. That isn't to say he expected speaking with Ms. Goldstein to solve everything, but he'd hope there would be an easier solution.

He taps his fingers on the wood of his desk, wondering what to do now that he knows Ms. Goldstein isn't out to get him (though he still thinks she's too strict). Maybe he should start taking her advice. “Um… would you like to join me for afternoon tea?”

She looks at him like he's transfigured himself as a runespoor and has grown three heads. Perhaps the offer is premature and he has half a mind to recall the words. Finally, as if hearing his turmoil thoughts, she says, “That depends. Do you have coffee?”

Newt smiles, relieved when she returns it albeit more timidly. “I’m sure I can scrounge it up somewhere.”

* * *

Slowly, he gets out and mingles.

He lets himself slip more personal information in his lectures, little, insignificant facts that relate to the subject at hand, such as his experiences with a creature, what the environment is like in person, and so on. Soon his students ask about his days more and more, about his travels and where he's been, what creatures has he seen, what are the places like, who are the people—they want to know everything. Many of them, he realizes, have never traveled out of the country.

His classroom turns into a hangout of some sort, students coming and going like workers in the Ministry. It confuses Newt all of three days before he realizes what's happening.

He finds fireworks, spelled quills and pens, invisible ink, and other treats that are no doubt illegal on school grounds hidden in an book among his own collection, pictures charmed to peel off and regain their voluminous form. Very elaborate, but not fully learned, the end of a sizzling firecracker peeking through the pages. Newt’s not a particularly stringent person, but decides to confiscate the love potions and the more serious items, leaving the rest as it is.

“I suggest you practice your charms,” he tells the fifth-year in his morning class as he hands him the book the following day. “It also pays to blend into your surroundings and hide in plain sight—a history book is sorely out of place in a herbology cabinet.”

The number of students dwindle after that, but Newt doesn't mind. He’s left with a handful of students he knows from his preferred classes, friendly enough that he's sure that they won't get into major trouble, and, more importantly, won't lead him into more scrutiny.

At dinner he makes an off comment on the particular properties of snakewood and his interest in the one planted in the courtyard and is ultimately surprised when the herbology professor immediately latches onto that tidbit. Much to Newt’s surprise, it's a prelude to more discussions with the woman.

Ms. Erigenia invites him to her greenhouse. There they discuss poisons and antidotes, symptoms and post-treatments, from the old to the recently discovered. Natural remedies orally passed down, nearly lost during the Salem Trials, are particularly fascinating and more efficient than those available at St. Mungo’s and Newt takes advantage of the seemingly infinite knowledge the woman before him harbors.

From there, they go into more personal topics. Persecution of Native Americans, their wandless magic seen as inferior and odd to immigrating wizards. Newt learns of Ms. Erigenia’s upbringing, learning wandless magic before enrolling in Ilvermorny, taught by the elders of her small tribe; he learns that many children are the same, knowing simple spells and charms and continuing to cast this way even after they receive their wands. More complex magic required a wand, the Mahican woman tells him, but the amount of control still outshines that of English children.

Newt can't help but grudgingly agree.

This continues for hours, hours which Newt doesn’t notice fly by with how interested he is in the content—she’s relatively informed about the number of creatures populating America’s mideast, offering all the information she knows when he asks about native species (he’s able to strike out snallygasters and jackalopes off his list). And, when they’ve run out of time, she offers to meet up again, and Newt, already forming a growing respect for the woman, agrees.

(“Please,” she'd told him during his third visit, “my friends call me Ephedra.”

He'd smiled. “Then call me Newt.”)

He's learning more than he thought he would, America ripe with knowledge he never considered important. Soon he finds himself actively seeking out people, starting conversations, going out of his way to learn about the people around him.

Mr. Nachin enjoys his alternative cleaner solution, and they spend an hour debating whether or not the doxy pesticide currently used could be perfected. And Mr. Stoker doesn't mind answering his questions about the physical effect of vampirism, even when Newt forgets himself and starts jotting down notes right in front of the man. Ephedra allows him to take samples of her prized _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ , while Mr. Hidalgo shares with him of the homemade potions he's collected from across the country (Newt is eager to try one or two with his fwooper who's coming down with a cold), but becomes extremely animated when they discuss the varying level of immunity of charms on different magical creatures (Newt knows he’s right that graphorn hide is more effective than dragon scales, the but man won’t be convinced).

Mrs. Barrow remains distant. There's no ridicule from her, only the regular amount of annoyance that he's come to expect. Some people won't ever come around, Newt's learned, disliking him for their own personal reasons that he may or may not come to know, and that's perfectly fine. Most of the faculty accept his presence and his word, so it's a bigger success than he could've ever hoped for. His mail is still being meddled with, but, he thinks as he sneaks a letter to the communal owl for the Horned Serpent students, you win some and you lose some.

Time and time again, he notices the difference between America and England. From a scientific standpoint, it's intriguing, quite like how he studies the differences between subspecies of creatures in differing environments.

He attends a quidditch game, watching in wide amazement as students barrel into one another, far more aggressive than what he's used to. It isn’t dirty sportsmanship, merely less lenient on what counted as a major offense. The language used is astounding if not a bit vulgar, the crowds shouting and screaming with more heart and fiery passion than necessary, going off with every call they didn't like, nearly spilling from the rafters.

Then there's quodpot, a bizarre and crazy game that's somehow branched off from quidditch to become a popular American pastime. It’s similar to quidditch, wilder and more life-threatening, complete with an exploding quaffle (a quod, if he recalls correctly). A perfect game for the Americans, though Newt fully sticks with the opinion that European quidditch is the better sport.

He doesn’t relay his opinion aloud, but, somehow, his students get a whiff of his disfavor. In usual fashion, Mildred takes the reigns and demands that they show him how Americans have perfected Quidditch. With her in lead, the rest of the class invites him to be a referee for a game or, maybe, if he’s willing, a player replacement ( _if your old bones can take it_ , Charlie says, and Newt would be insulted if he didn’t find it so funny).

Strangely enough, he says yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've already written most of this story, but the two next chapters are the less written ones, so please bear with me as I flesh them out. Also, I do have a life outside of this, so if it takes another couple of weeks for an update, know that I am fitting time into my schedule to finish!
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated! Small or not, it will spur me to write more!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _kairosclerosis - n. the moment you realize that you’re currently happy—consciously trying to savor the feeling—which prompts your intellect to identify it, pick it apart and put it in context, where it will slowly dissolve until it’s little more than an aftertaste_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this chapter done for so long, but my beta didn't get to it for three weeks! I'm so behind on updates! Ahhhhh!
> 
> Also, I changed a small part of the last chapter. Nothing big, I just realized that I had said it was almost Christmas in the last chapter, but that would go against this chapter, which is around Thanksgiving time.
> 
> Anyway! More Ilvermorny life for your enjoyment!

The seasons at Ilvermorny are vastly different than in any place Newt’s ever been. Unlike in London where autumn lingers and fades into winter smoothly—or in Russia where the warmer climates are skipped entirely in favor of snow, snow and more snow—it passes quickly here in the States. In the blink of an eye the leaves are draining in lively color and falling from their trees, creating rivers of gold across the crosswalks and along roof tiles, slowly buried as the snow falls in successions.

Tradition ordered for a Thanksgiving feast, filled with more turkey meat than Newt would think necessary. In addition, the castle had been decorated by some deity in the night, swathed in warm yellows, oranges and browns, drapes and ribbons adorning every available space in worship of fall. The tables in the main hall had been made into a shrine of harvest food and cornucopias, a splash of color amidst the candlesticks and pilgrim hats in an overkill of extravagance. It seemed to Newt as if the excess of festivity was done in order to make up for the fact that the holiday was only an intermediate settled between the more popular Hallow’s Eve and Christmas.

But he isn’t about to voice that opinion aloud.

It's undeniable that the festivities are one of the cheeriest he’s ever experienced. The students go on and on about their favorite flavors of pie and some woman named Macy and her parade and the story behind the holiday, piling their plates high with food. And Newt listens and mingles as what was expected of him, finding that he's actually enjoying himself.

Still, socializing was all well and good, but he does enjoy some solitary every now and then. A day to himself, one where he can bask in the almost silence of his workshop or little cottage. He's happy to answer questions about one creature or another, indulge in the occasional outing, but a little privacy is wanted at times.

When he can, he makes his way to his temporary home, leaving behind all the voices and sounds of society in favor of the muted silence of soon-to-be-winter. Even the darkness of the forest doesn’t frighten him, the billions of stars above dotting the black canvas of night, taking him back to the days camping with only his case.

After reformatting the curriculum to better fit his standards and whatnot, Newt settles down beside the fire in the cottage and gets to work on his self-imposed project. His shack is already cluttered, so it’s best if he keeps this research separate with the rest. Best not let the occamies get a chance to eat it.

Ephedra, bless the woman, had somehow gotten whiff of his interest in the mysterious attacks and supplies him with previous newspaper clippings concerning the subject.

“Mr. Stoker is a particular hoarder,” she'd said before he could ask how she'd gotten hold of a dozen of them. “It was no easy task having him part with them. You'll be helping me replant my mandrakes to make it up to me.”

Newt had grinned, thankful, and accepted her terms. Not much trouble, really, not when he enjoys her company. And herbology had always been a hobby of his.

His good mood is dashed when he actually reads the papers.

Like all things American, it proves lacking. While it does help him determine the time period between attacks (his analysis of the correlation to migration patterns depended on it) and what areas were favored, the beast in question is nothing anyone can catch and pinpoint. There’s no firsthand accounts, no clear descriptions, just the details on the destruction that’s left behind. Now more than ever, Newt wishes that wizards payed more attention to Muggles, or at least bothered to interview them. Maybe they could offer a description of what was causing all this havoc.

Having a high-level auror brother comes in handy, but if MACUSA is withholding information about the situation, even having ties to the Ministry won’t help Newt. The Americans are tight-lipped about the whole thing according to Theseus. Whatever they're dealing with, they're keeping utter secrecy to prevent mass hysteria, which makes his own investigation all the more difficult.

He's already narrowed down the possibilities, but his intuition says that he won’t get far for any of the creatures. It’s not cockiness that has him believing he’s the best in his field (compared to the “professionals” that currently delegate it, he _is_ the best), but he has studied the behavior of so many creatures, big and small, each with their own level of intelligence, and has a great number of them residing in his case. Even without knowing exactly what he's looking for, he's more than confident in his abilities to determine what it’s not. The demographics, behavior patterns, migration paths, nothing remotely familiar matches to what terrorizes the American Muggles.

When he'd first learnt about the attacks, he hadn't been completely convinced that a magical creature was the one to inflict all the damage, and he still thinks that. Now he has proof his first hunch was right (he only hopes that his word carries enough so that other wizards might believe in his data).

Newt sighs, leaning back into his armchair. He's got pages of telling what it's _not_ , but not a single word indicating what it _is_. It’s not enough, he knows. He has a difficult time convincing his coworkers that Murtlaps can be very cuddly at times, much less that an evasive terror isn’t a violent magical creature.

Maybe if he made his own trip to the Muggle town himself…

A single, soft, _click_ can be barely heard over the crackling fire, but Newt’s grown to listen for this sound and doesn't hesitate to to grab the offending leg trying to slip through the lip of his suitcase. It's within easy reach, which is bad luck for his niffler.

“Again?” He pulls the little critter back before it can even try to make a break for the window. “Don’t whine. It’s too cold for you outside.”

The snow is falling readily now, the pukwudgies and Ilvermonry’s groundskeeper shoveling the walkways daily. Newt’s cottage is out of the way, the snow usually up to his knees, and he sometimes thinks that one morning he’ll wake up with it packed against his windows. Definitely too cold for a niffler.

He doesn’t want to risk another escape, especially on the off chance there were eyes watching him. One good thing that came from living in a small cottage, the security spells and wards he’d cast on its walls were easier to maintain. With the turn of the weather, it was difficult, if not nearly impossible, to spot approaching figures coming down from the school, especially this late, and Newt’s paranoia had only grown at having so many MACUSA agents nearby.

Even with the extra protection, he won’t allow for his niffler to run wild. He blows at its bill, chuckling when it sneezes. “You're perfectly happy, I know you are, so why do you keep escaping? You have more than enough treasure. It isn't to mess with me, is it?”

Slipping from his grip, his niffler tumbles into his lap. Pickett cries his protests, crawling to Newt’s shoulder to escape being crushed.

“Hush,” Newt tells the bowtruckle. “You'll have to share.” He turns to the critter in his lap, merely setting aside his ink and quill before a mess is made. “You’re an attention-hoard, you know that?”

He doesn’t get an answer. Instead, his niffler decides escaping isn’t worth the trouble anymore and settles in his lap, papers and all. Newt feels the vibrations of its warbling purr, finding himself, like always, charmed by his personal hell-raiser and slowly relaxing. So, with no one around to keep appearances for, he sets his feet on the small table, next to the short stack essays he hasn't gotten to grading. His niffler snuggles closer, petting the buttons of his waistcoat, but doesn’t try to take them for itself, and Pickett slips into the crease of his collar with a soft chirrup.

Newt floats another log to the fire and the temperature in the cottage rises, and his niffler practically shakes in happiness. It's all too compliant when he pets it along it's spine, wiggling when he tickles his sides.

“I feel like the answer is staring me right in the face,” he tells his companions after sometime, staring at the mantel above the fireplace and the pictures settled there. The man and two boys waves at him. “It’s not a beast, but I don’t think it’s a wizard either. A bit of both, maybe? Does that make sense?”

His niffler makes a soft sound in its sleep.

“Right.” His mother always insisted a good night’s sleep would help and it was getting late. He can mull over the problem another time, he supposes, when it’s not so late and he’s not behind on grading.

* * *

 

It seems Newt’s come to Ilvermorny at an opportune time, able to experience a tradition that it’s only just started up again.

At dinner, Headmistress Peregrine rises from her seat, looking as regal as ever. “Although we should not throw caution to the wind, it pays to remember to enjoy ourselves once in awhile. That is why, for the first time in over a decade, Ilvermorny will be having its Winter Formal.”

A cheer goes through the student body. Pickett squeals in Newt’s pocket, startled, while the noise level rises, and Newt presses a hand to his jacket to calm him. He's smiling nonetheless, amused by the students’ antics at the mere word of a dance. Chatter spreads through the hall, many students turning to their neighbor, and Newt spots Mildred excitedly whispering to Delilah and Emil at the Thunderbird table.

The rest of the news cuts the celebrations short. “For students third year and higher, there will also be some changes to Babington weekends. Due to the dangers that lie just beyond American shores, all students will be required to be accompanied by a chaperone.”

“That’s a bunch of bushwa!” someone exclaims as the rest of the older students yell out their own objections. It’s only when Headmistress Peregrine raises her hand for silence do the students quiet down somewhat.

“This is for your safety and so, I expect you all to follow these new rules. Anyone caught breaking them will have their weekends terminated.” She sweeps her gaze across the hall, meeting the eyes of specific students one by one. “With that in mind, I hope you all behave yourself.”

She takes her seat without another word and the platters fill themselves with delicacies that exceeds what’s the elves usually prepare. Whole roasted pigs, platters of fowl stuffed with fruits and nuts, drizzled in sauces. Newt eyes the piles of breads and cheeses near him, wondering if it's a sort of apology for the limitations.

“We used to have the Formal annually. Something for the students to look forward to at the end of the year,” Ephedra tells him once the students settle down, beginning to cut into the chicken in front of her. She piles some onto his plate as well as hers. “Stopped having it some time ago, what with the first world war and Grindelwald.”

Newt takes a sip of his tea, only barely grimacing at the less than delightful taste (it's getting better). “Don't most students return home for the holidays?”

“A lot of them do. The dance is held just after the semester ends, right before most of them leave.”

“Didn't you have any dances at Hogwarts?” Mr. Nachin asks from two seats down. “And pass the carrots.”

“No, we didn't.” Hogwarts is undoubtedly the best wizarding school in the world, but Newt now feels that he’s been cheated of many things. A dance of some sort would’ve added some flair to his school years, something to reminisce about after his expulsion—not that anyone would’ve accompanied him to one.

Well, there was one person who might have, but if she had an interest in that sort of thing, it was never towards him.

Ephedra pats his forearm. “Well, you're in for a treat! It’s not just for the students, you know.”

“If Headmistress allows him to attend,” Mr. Hidalgo says past his food. “He wouldn't be the only one under watchful eye.”

That piques Newt’s interest. “What do you mean by that?”

Before anyone can answer him, Ephedra threateningly jabs her knife in the direction of the Charms professor. “Watch your tongue, Blandus! I don't want to hear that you've been spreading rumors! Headmistress has already said to leave it to rest!” She glares at Mr. Hidalgo until he’s suddenly busy with his plate, before turning back to Newt. “Don't worry about it. It has nothing to do with you, Newt. Besides, it's not our business to tell.” Her expression turns slightly anxious. “You understand that, don't you?”

He does understand, so he lets it go for now. Learning that he’s not the only one on a thin line with MACUSA, and who that person is, would serve to calm him, but the worry on Ephedra’s face has him hurriedly reassuring her instead, not wanting to lose one of the few friends he’s made. Best to mind his business for now. “I don’t bother with rumors.”

“Good.” Ephedra says, calming. “Gossip breeds unrest, so I don't like to partake it if I don't have to.”

Mr. Nachin snorts in his goblet and, on Newt’s other side, Mrs. Barrow rolls her eyes. The other faculty who heard her also share similar disbelief. At their responses, Newt thinks back to the day before when she told him of the fiasco with the groundskeeper and the escaped fire-crabs, how confident she spoke of event. How she’d told him every detail down to the color of the man’s underpants.

As if reading his mind, Ephedra grins. “Unless I know it's true.”

Newt laughs. From behind Ephedra’s head, Mr. Nachin childishly mimics blowing a raspberry, something that looks ridiculous with his thick beard. The man has a face of a seasoned auror, but the spirit of a child. Newt’s beginning to like him as well.

Without looking and with a small wave of her hand, Ephedra has Mr. Nachin’s carrots running from his fork and off the table.

The man struggles to catch them. “Sweet Sayre! It’s bad enough I still can’t find my potatoes from yesterday! Leave my carrots be!”

That gets a laugh from the astronomy professor, Mrs. Cannon, further down the table, while the rest ignore it like it’s an everyday occurrence. Funnily enough, it is.

Ephedra and Mr. Nachin throw words up and down the table and Newt thinks that this is what having friends looks like, silliness and all. It’s well-deserved fresh air from the seriousness of the world outside.

He hears the click of his faulty lock.

He nods at Ephedra when she turns back to him, not fully hearing what she’s said, but agreeing nonetheless, all the while flipping the lock closed. No one pays it any mind.

* * *

 

Headmistress Peregrine corners him as he’s leaving the dining hall with a proposition.

“A chaperone?” Newt says, wondering if he’s heard right. Certainly not.

“Yes. With Mr. Jensen gone, I’m one short and I’d rather ask you than overwhelm the rest of the professors. Won’t you accept?”

They’re walking along the western wing towards his cottage, the open corridor and the weather finally forcing them to don on their coats inside as she tries to convince him that he’s the right man for the job. Newt notes that this is the first time he’s seen the woman in something more than an elegant dress. Her winter robes are a dark splot against the grey surroundings as they cross the courtyard with the snakewood, a shimmering horned serpent eyeing him from the embroidery.

A chaperone. Newt mulls over the thought, trying to imagine him playing the part. He’d get the chance to visit Ilvermorny’s own equivalent of Hogsmeade, a small wizard village just down the mountain, the only all-wizard community on the eastern coast (not that he couldn’t already, but now he had a reason to visit).

“We have something similar. Hogsmeade.” He pauses. “Isn’t it under protective spells?”

“Yes, but these are dangerous times. With MACUSA stationed at the school, we’ve had to limit some freedoms.” Headmistress Peregrine side-eyes him. “I was discussing whether or not we would allow it this year with Mr. Graves when your niffler fiasco happened.”

“Oh,” he says. “Aren't I, ah, still under scrutiny?”

“If you prefer to be…”

“No, no, I'd enjoy remaining a free man.”

Headmistress laughs. Newt realizes that it’s the first time she’s done that in front of him and it’s somewhat startling; he didn’t expect a woman such as herself to be so open to humor. “You won't be arrested on these grounds, Mr. Scamander, I assure you. Mr. Graves may have a nasty bite, but I am in charge here.”

“That's... reassuring.”

More of her humor slips through when she smiles. “I expect so. I’m willing to give you a second chance to prove yourself.”

“You are more forgiving than I originally thought,” he tells her honestly.

She laughs again. “Well, I'm afraid I'm biased here. You had a wonderful recommendation from a close friend of mine, so I trust that you’re a good man.”

“A recommendation?” As far as he's aware, the Ministry dealt with the entire process and Newt can't think of a person there who would say many great things about him. Even less who would willingly recommend him.

“One of your previous professors,” she explains with a wave of her hand. “But that's a talk for another time. Will you accept my offer?”

There's only one person from Hogwarts that would defend him and with them, secrets that exceed even those of his case. He nods.

“Excellent.” She pulls out a dozen or so papers from the folds of her robes; she must have expected his answer and prepared in advance. “Here's the list of students you'll be looking after. Faculty must be at the Eastern gates before noon.”

A trio of students come bursting out of a classroom, laughing in way that reminds Newt of Charlie Keaton, the top prankster of his year after he coerced Peeves to help slip fireworks into the Headmaster’s office. They come to an immediate halt when they spot Newt and his companion, and the girl, who Newt assumes is the leader, merely smiles and does a small curtsy. “Evening, Headmistress.”

“Good evening, Denise. What, may I ask, were you doing in Mr. Zhao’s classroom this late in the evening?”

The girl flutters her eyes, absolutely angelic. “Nothing, madame.”

Headmistress Peregrine hums thoughtfully. “Then will you send for Mr. Hunting to clean it up? I fear Mr. Zhao’s left it a mess.”

“Yes, madame.”

“Thank you. Goodbye, Denise.” A pause. “Goodbye, James. Goodbye, Robert.”

Denise not-so-discretely nudges the two boys. “Goodbye, madame,” they say simultaneously before hurrying off.

“They’re a wild bunch.” The trio bolt once they think they’re in the clear. Newt shares a smile with the Headmistress, who stares after fondly. “Do you think you handle it, Mr. Scamander?”

“Yes.” It'll be like caring his occamies.

* * *

 

Teenagers are quite different than occamy hatchlings, it turns out.

Headmistress must have taken pity on him and his fledgling status, assigning him one of his regular classes as his group. They spot him when he enters the southern courtyard, the rest of the students already congregated into groups, and Newt doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the way they perk up. Never did he think he’d meet people that would enjoy being around him, but, then again, he never thought he’d be the teaching type either.

“Why are you bringing your suitcase?” is the first thing that Mildred asks when he’s close enough.

“Force of habit, I suppose.” He entertains them with a story stories of his time in the Sahara as they exit the school and, when he tells them of how he smuggled a clutch of Runespoor eggs across the Egyptian border to bring them to a protective reserve, they appear to have more respect for his battered case and leave it well alone.

“Mr. Scamander,” Mr. Graves intones as their group passes the gate, nodding respectfully from his post. Newt quickly hurries on, hoping that his stories didn’t carry far enough for the man to hear.

While his students have had the kindness to not discuss any rumors concerning him in his presence, that period seems to have come to a close, as they are completely open to whispering about themselves after the quick, yet obvious interaction with the head of security. It has something to do with the fact that Mr. Graves’s refrains from talking to all if not most faculty unless absolutely necessary—besides the Headmistress that is. Newt tries to ignore them, especially so when some of the girls go off topic to start discussing the relative attractiveness of the man.

How his parents got along with him and Theseus as children, he’ll never know. Controlling the two of them was a hardship, so dealing with a herd of rambunctious youths without the confines of a class setting seems impossible.

Following the winding trail of students ahead, they soon come to an open glade, Newt squinting at the blinding snow with the sudden sunlight. It’s small, dotted with shrubs stubbornly resisting the change of seasons, and a frozen pond down the way. Their destination, two winding trees that bend to make a natural doorway and, as Newt watches, the students walk through, vanishing one by one.

“Hurry up, Professor Scamander!” Mildred insists, pushing past him and vanishing along with everyone else.

Newt doesn’t hesitate. He steps through and it feels as though the air’s turned into syrup, thick like molasses. It only lasts a second and then he’s through, stumbling into a place he never been before.

Gazing up and behind, he sees only the flag atop of Ilvermorny’s tallest tower, the rest of the school hidden by the frosted pines trees blanketing the mountain side. The entrance he’d come through is only a simple wooden gateway held up by two Thunderbird totems on either side, a constant stream of students and teachers passing through just as he did. Ahead of him, the small village hidden from the rest of the world.

Just as Newt expected, Babington Hills is very similar to Hogsmeade in appearance, the epitome of the scenes depicted on a Christmas card. Along the sloping road, small cottages similar to the one he’s living in at Ilvermorny are settled on the small humps of the mountainside, with quaint signs and alluring displays that draw in the dozens of students milling about.

Surrounding it like a protective wall, the wilderness is incredibly dense, more plant life than the snow-covered mountain top Newt’s grown accustomed to during his stay. Following his students’ insisting, Newt hurries down the path, trying to take in all the sights. There’s a small station even further down the mountainside for visitors, a local post office next to it, and more practical things on the far end of the street. Close by he spies jewelry shops, taverns, broom shops, apothecaries, floral boutiques. Newt thinks that Babington is more like Diagon Alley than Hogsmeade in this way.

Newt never feels more like a foreigner whenever he's with his class.

“You've never had pizza?” Thomas sounds downright shocked, insulted even, as they pass by a parlor that looked to be from the colonial era. _Maybel’s Millinery_ reads the elegant writing on it’s window, multicolored robes floating about within, all too fancy and stiff for Newt’s kind of work.

Newt gives him a quick glance, unsure whether he’s done something wrong. He’d only admitted it as an off comment. “Haven't had the time to try it.”

“Pastrami on rye?”

“Cheese on potatoes?”

“Root beer?”

“Hot dogs?”

“Not a one,” he says absently, intrigue by the fluttering books in a cage outside a bookstore. He wonders if it's a new edition of Bestarium Magicum and if it’s even worth a look. The pages are beginning to go stiff from the cold air and he turns away without informing the shop owner.

Mildred jumps in front of him before he can continue onto the next shop. “Then what are we waiting for! Let’s go!”

“Go? Go where?” Newt asks, but isn’t allowed to say anymore. At Mildred’s words, Newt’s rushed; Thomas and Bernice pulls at his sleeves, while Eugene pushes, and the rest of the group surrounds him so he can’t escape. He’s herded into the closest shop, its window offering a delectable view of the sweets on display. It’s filled with the bustling bodies of students, who are openly shoved out of the way by Christopher and Charlie as they clear a path. The resulting objections and the dirty looks sent their way are ignored.

There’s more candy Newt had never heard of. He gets chocolate frogs, American wizards with names and faces completely unknown to him, Snickering Snickerdoodles, Boom Boom Balls, Skinwalker’s Surprise, Popping Rocks, everything a wizard child could dream for. One or two students must think it a good joke, some Exploding Bonbons, Shock-o-Choc, and Cockroach Clusters finding their way onto his pockets.

He pays for every single piece, going through the hassle of figuring out what the British equivalent of a dragot and six sprinks is. He can hear the cries of his vault at Gringotts in protest at the spending.

Once his students have felt he’s gotten enough sweets, they usher him out and to the next shop. To the bakery, family-owned diners, the Bishop’s Bar (he isn’t fooled when they demand he try the varying liquor offered), anything that sells American delicacies, and he has to remind his students that there will be more weekends. They can’t hit every single stop in one visit or else there’ll be nothing to do the rest of the year.

Through his own insistence, they visit something that doesn’t sell food, but rather, creatures. The little shop is nothing like the Magical Menagerie at Diagon Alley, but Newt doesn’t expect much from a country with such strict creature restrictions. It’s a small shop, homey and simple, not overly extravagant about it compared to the other shops. There’s the standard collection of cats, toads, owls, and rats, even some snails, but nothing overly magical. America’s creature ban at work, no doubt.

He is pleasantly surprised when he comes across a troop of clabberts lazing about in a small tree, the mottled green of their smooth skin blending them perfectly within the tree branches. The sign beside them tells him they’re imported from Mexico.

“Be careful!” the shopkeepers says from behind the counter when Newt gets close. “They’re still anxious from the trip here!”

“We used to have them around all the time,” Eustace says, coming up beside him while the rest of the group mills about, “but not anymore.”

“A danger to the secrecy of wizards most likely.” The pustules on each of the clabberts die out as they each take a sniff at Newt’s hand.  “Hello,” he greets them, offering a small lizard left over from his fwooper’s feeding, and in no time he has half a dozen of the little creatures clinging to him, bickering in croaking voices on who deserve the morsel of food.

“Gross!” someone says (Alma, he assumes) when he finds another lizard in his pocket, while the shopkeeper goes, “Don’t feed them!”

They spend a good amount of time with the clabberts, during which Newt teaches some of the students calls, and, by the end of it, one of the younger clabberts refuses to depart from Mildred, who Newt suspects thinks it's founds its mate. The poor thing is wailing when the shopkeeper shoos them out.

A few more hours are spent exploring the less exciting part of the village, the students showing him the local railroad station and explain where the other all-wizard communities are (there’s Los Angeles, Houston, New York, Charleston, so many more than those in England), and by then, it’s late in the evening, the lanterns flickering to life as the sun begins to set. Newt counts heads and is surprised to find that he’s two off. “Oh bugger,” he mutters, wondering how he botched up so quickly and how to locate two juveniles in half an hour.

“Missing something?” someone asks and Newt turns to spot Ms. Goldstein with a group of fourth years he doesn’t recognize. Estelle and Charles are beside her, looking unhappily at being within her grip, quietly making their way to Newt’s group when they’re released.

“Oh, um, yes, thank you,” Newt says. He gives them what he hopes is a meaningful stare, one that’ll tell them that he’ll be having talk about with the two of them later.

Before he can usher his students away, Ms. Goldstein’s question grabs his attention again. “Aren’t you heading back to the school? It’s almost curfew.”

“Curfew?”

“The kids have to be back at the castle an hour before dinner,” Ms. Goldstein says somewhat patiently. At his expression, she elaborates. “That’s in ten minutes.”

Newt could’ve sworn they had more time. He pats his pockets before remembering where his watch is.

He raises his eyebrows at Mildred, the unofficial timekeeper for their little outing. She shrugs, handing him his pocket watch when he motions for it, unapologetic. He checks the time and finds that Ms. Goldstein is right.

The trip up the hill is a quick one, the snowfall easing up and they reach the gateway along with the rest of the stragglers. From there, the students merge into one mass, the chaperones lingering at the sides, and Newt notes that none of them interject themselves into any of the conversations of the students.

The relationship between professor and students are supposed to have a level of respect, follow the constructs of etiquette and retain a level of distinction that made sure the connection didn’t become too deep. Newt thinks he's failing in that. It might be because he’s the focus of discussion with his students who, for all purposes, are already planning what they’ll show him for the next trip.

“You’re in for it now,” Ephedra jokes as she overhears what the students are saying. “They won’t leave you alone until you’ve been Americanized.”

Like always, she’s right. The first trip to Babington is a success, as is the next one, and then the other after that. His students keep to their word and somehow find him new things to try. Every day there is a new dish at his desk, classically American in every way. Despite such a strict law forbidding wizard and muggle interaction, the two are far more intertwined than in England, with similar dishes and sweets. How the students managed to get such a variety, Newt doesn't know.

“Well?” someone will ask the next day, once class has started. “How was it?”

And Newt will grin at his papers, knowing that what he’s about to say will start a debate that sets him against his students, but he’ll say it anyway because he’s fallen for their charm. “Could be better,” he’ll say, or “It’s better in England.”

He’s never disappointed. As one, his class groans and start talking at once, demanding that he tell them what was wrong with what they gave him, and he doesn’t hesitate to tell them. Some will listen, while others will scoff at his explanation and loudly insist he needs to get of his high hippogriff and give America what it’s due.

They argue and bicker, throw snark comments in the air, taking up precious class time as they do, and Newt loves every minute of it.

* * *

 

He has afternoon tea with William at least twice a week. And, sometimes, he gets snippets of a life before Ilvermorny, of tribes and wandering English girls ( _merely made up tales, Mr. Englishman, that's all_ ) and adventure.

Slowly but surely, he finds a niche in the school. William shows him how to navigate it, telling him the history of each corridor and of the paintings that hang on the wall, and he doesn't get lost as much. Ephedra tells him what to give to the house elves to persuade them to put in a little more effort into his tea, and even Ms. Goldstein offers her own advice so that the library stops trying to kill him.

“You can’t just keep taking knowledge,” she explains. “Offer it something in return.”

He leaves an early edition of one of his old Potions textbooks, marked and all, on an empty desk table at the back of the library. A bit outdated, but still useful, he thinks.

It disappears the moment his back is turned and, after a long period of searching, Newt finds it in the appropriate section with the other American Potions book.

He’s not bothered again.

He tells Ms. Goldstein this and she acts like she’s surprised he followed her advice at all. Which is absurd because why would he ask the question in the first place if he wasn’t going to listen? He tells her so and expects her to snap at him, but, surprisingly, she becomes docile. Instead, she tells him of other school secrets to make his stay more pleasant.

There are school rules that he learns, where the students should and shouldn't be allowed, and what leeway teachers have. He can go down the mountainside, explore the wilderness around the school as much as he likes, and the towns beyond it's borders aren't strictly off-limits. He can go there if he wishes, but speaking about non-magical people and towns isn't wanted (so to not inspire the children to sneak there themselves).

He learns which hallways he should take if he's running late and which ones to avoid at all cost, where the curtains attack at the slightest notion and the rugs love to play tricks. How to use the Rotating Staircase efficiently without ending up in the Astronomy tower every time. That there’s a hidden passage in the east wing that will get him to the Great Hall without having to deal with the portraits that line the corridor he usually takes. He wonders why it’s so important for him to know that one, when—

“General Redfield doesn’t have a portrait there,” Ms. Goldstein explains.

“Ah,” he says, finally understanding, feeling like he’s finally joined in a inside joke that everyone’s been privy too except him. “Thank you.”

They don’t make another tea date and Newt’s not sure if he should invite her again, much less if it’ll be welcomed. Instead, he tries to make small talk before and after meals with Ephedra there to ease the conversation forward when need be; the Mahican woman is known by everyone, welcomed by all, and Ms. Goldstein is no exception. With her help, Newt begins to actually like Ms. Goldstein and thinks that she might feel the same—if not tolerate him. They’re not friends, but rather allies.

Ephedra eagerly supports the potential friendship. “It’s good for everyone to work together. All you need is a push.”

Beside the need-to-know information concerning Ilvermorny, Newt is glad that he has help from William. The Pukwudgie solidifies what he already knows, that it’s not magical creature attacking the Muggle.

“Americans are different than you English,” William says. “They’re much more abrasive and stubborn. If they think it was a creature, no amount of arguing is going to make them change their minds. A bunch of words on paper won’t do it. You’ll have to show them.”

“Yes, but how?”

“How do you expect me to answer that? I’m a pukwudgie, not an oracle!” William harrumphs, jumping off his chair with more grace than Newt would expect from a creature of his age. “I can’t stand you wizards! You’re all the same! Always expecting other people to have an answer to all your problems.”

Newt grins wryly at him. “I thought we were all different.”

“Different. Same. You are what you are. Human.”

It’s usually with words like that, always harsher than necessary, but never hurtful, that Newt knows their conversation is over. Despite knowing nothing about his case William somehow takes his leave exactly when Newt had to feed his creatures, and today is no different. The pukwudgie leaves when his back is turned, gone until their next afternoon tea.

Making sure his cottage is locked up and the drapes are all drawn, Newt descends into his case, grabbing his most recent project. Muggle inventions were somewhat of a mystery to him, but he thinks he’s figured out this particular contraption and fool-proofed it to handle all possible dangerous scenarios his beasts might throw at it.

Dougal sniffs the radio when he sets it down on small tabletop by the door of his shack.

“This dial changes the stations,” he instructs, pointing at the appropriate knob. He gives it a slight turn. Smooth jazz spills through the speakers, startling the Demiguise. Newt grins, turning down the volume.

“I quite like American music, don't you?”

Dougal chatters, coming closer and taking a turn fiddling with the knobs; the volume rises and quiets in erratic intervals as he plays, different songs interrupting each other as the radio switches stations. Then Dougal stops and a song begins to play, a baritone voice rising through the air in a train of melody.

Newt grins, patting the creature’s head in approval.

A rush of movement gets his attention. He rushes to the occamy nest, shushing their excited squawking. “Now, now, no flying out of the nest. You can enjoy the music where you are.”

They calm down, fluttering and slithering about, but remain within the nest. Frank settles down as well, eyes closed and wings snug at his sides, while the nundu rolls in its sand lazily. Even his erumpent seems less energetic and more passive.

Newt marvels at the sudden serenity that's come over his creatures. The music mixes with the natural sounds of the wilderness, melding together to create something that's both tame and wild. He finds that he quite likes it.

“I don't know why I didn't think of this before,” he tells Pickett.

The bowtruckle merely sways to the tune.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got permission by the lovely websterswampus on Tumblr to use their American wizard candy names! They have a lot more Ilvermorny headcanons, so check them out [here](https://websterswampus.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _scopaesthesia - n. the supposed phenomenon of feeling that someone is staring at you_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is super late, but school has been hectic and I've been stressing over getting experience in the field and internships, so sue me. Honestly, I'm hoping that I can get my shit together, get back in gear, and finish this before the second movie comes out. I just gotta get past the next two chapters.
> 
> You guys can thank hystericalcherries for the fan service I'm about to give you.

“Be careful, Englishman,” William says that afternoon, voice gruff. The pukwudgie watches him flit around his cottage, gathering supplies for the upcoming hike he intended to take about the woods surrounding the school. He forgoes bringing his case and uses his coat’s many pockets. “You might have the know-how about magical creatures, but even you can't befriend all of them.”

Newt grins good naturally. “No need to worry. I’ve done this sort of thing before.”

“Like I’d bother to worry over you. I merely don’t want to be the one to explain to Headmistress how her new professor has vanished because of his overly confident ego.”

“I’ll be back for dinner.”

He set off a little after two, intending to lay eyes on the native inhabitants of the mountain. Going out with his classes had been futile except for the more friendlier species and he's determined to find any tracks or clues as to where the elusive wampus cat hunted. Ilvermorny’s founders must have had their reasons to choose it as a mascot, one of the many reasons Newt’s interested in coming across one; rumored saliva with healing properties is another.

His work is a slow in discoveries, animals tending to keep to themselves, and he’s left to hike up the mountainside and deeper into the wilderness. By the end of three hours, he’s collected a few botany samples and shooed off a cluster of migrating essex skippers. When there’s no sign of the wampus and the sun sets, Newt, in all his eagerness, keeps exploring. It’s then, path illuminated only by the small light expelled from the tip of his wand, that the second problem comes to fruition: he’s lost. Now, this isn’t anything new, but the strange sounds coming from the shadows around him are.

When he looks, there’s nothing there. The woods are dark, thick trees creating a canopy of pine and evergreen that blocks the moon from view, and he knows he isn’t the only one lurking in the woods, far from it. Many creatures, magical and not, called this place their home and he’d be foolish to think them all friendly to his presence; he’s dealt with many a kind to know that he’s prime prey and he often uses that to his advantage. Maybe the wampus will take the bait.

With slow footsteps he treads along the hillside, careful to keep a tight hold on his wand and an ear out for large shifts in the brush. It’s not long until he’s rewarded for his troubles. In the quiet of the night, he hears a unfamiliar call. The sound is more moan than growl, inhuman in how it crawls over the snow in a desperate reach for him. Though it doesn’t sound exceedingly close, it’s still enough to put him on edge.

That’s not what a wampus cat should sound like, that he’s sure of.

Twigs snap underneath his feet, crooked branches from low hanging trees snagging onto his clothes in an twisted mimicry of an embrace, far too loud for his liking. His strides get longer as he hunches over, his body working overtime as he pushes himself forward and up a sudden incline. Every footfall is accompanied by a grievous moan from the dark forest, the sound slipping through the foliage like a lugubrious hunger waiting to be satisfied.

His heartbeat quickens.

Suddenly, he knows what he’s hearing. He’s heard it before—or, at least, a variation of it. Back in his suitcase, safely tucked away under his borrowed bed in his borrowed room in his borrowed cottage. A certain demiguise had sung this very song at Newt when they had first made acquaintance with each other, the creature afraid and distrustful of the magizoologist and letting out a warning for him to keep his distance.

Except demiguises are only found in the far east.

Newt considers his options. If he is being stalked—and by a hidebehind, no less—then that means whatever creature is following him leans more toward the aggressive side. Apparition would be helpful, but he's still on Ilvermorny grounds. Running isn't an option, only ever making the situation worse, and so he refrains from his most basic survival instinct and keeps his normal pace. He squints at the night sky when the trees clear up, trying to pinpoint the star that can lead him back to the school, and though the stars are different than the ones he’s come to know in Africa, he’s sure he knows what constellations he’s looking at.

A immobilizing spell will do him good, if only he could catch sight of the creature long enough to cast it. It keeps just out of his reach, tiptoeing on the edge of his sight. He would be amazed at its ability if it wasn’t becoming so life-threatening. He can’t look around at his surrounding or do anything that might show that he's actively trying to spot it, for that might spur it to try and do something Newt’s not prepared to handle. So he keeps his head facing forward and tries to catch it in his peripheral.

It’s only because he’s knows where to look that he’s awarded with his efforts. Barely peeking out from behind a pine, the hidebehind looks like a yeti the size of a ghoul, silvery hair similar to Dougal’s. Fascinating, considering that it can hide itself in the shadows with such a noticeable characteristic. It’s eyes are hidden in the dark, but it’s mouth is clear in the sliver of moonlight, fangs bared in a sort of wicked grin.

It disappears before he can draw his wand, there one second and gone the next.

This leaves Newt twisted, legs moving in one direction and torso partially turned another. Quickly, he straightens out—

—and catches a glimpse of a shadow slipping behind the truck of a red spruce.

It’s young, he thinks, watching a branch snap back into place after a _could-be_ stray breeze. Maybe just out of the nest, one who’s in its prime and bored without the companionship of parents or littermates. That tidbit of information would be interesting in any other circumstance, something to put in his notes, but not now. He knows the hidebehind is actively stalking him and that is more alarming than anything else.

Yet another moan saturates the air and, contrary to belief, knowing what makes it does not help sooth his nerves. It doesn’t help that the hidebehind seems to be becoming more impatient as Newt progresses through the forest, lingering in his peripherals like mist over a frozen valley. It’s allowing itself to be seen and Newt thinks it's only a matter of time before—

Newt jerks to the side when he feels a warm breath ghosting over the nape of his neck and a clawed hand digging into the skin of his shoulder. It lifts him and a strangled yell tumbles from his lips as he’s caught by surprise, only to be cut off as he’s abruptly dropped. It grabs him by his leg next and he’s face to face with the beast’s hairy chest, prodding his body with enough force to having him swinging. Some of his supplies fall from his pockets, quills and papers and vials landing in the snow below him, crushed by the hidebehind’s ape-like feet.

“That’s enough—” He's dropped, then caught by his collar, his feet barely touching the ground. Newt grunts, pulling at his coat to alleviate the pain flaring at his shoulder. “No—stop that—”

He tries to find his footing, the fabric of his coat ripping as he twists, but his foot catches on a rock; gravity takes over and he takes a unforgiving tumble the slope he was just overcoming. The fall is a short one and somehow doesn’t result in a broken his neck, and Newt lands in a small clump of snow. His shoulder burns something fierce, but he ignores it in favor of something more important: he’s lost his wand.

He searches the ground around him, cursing himself a million different ways, shoving his hands into the snow and wiping it away in hopes of finding it. “ _Lumos_ ” he mutters when it proves futile, only leaving his hands freezing and red from the cold, but the spell doesn’t produce its usual light. “Bugger it all.”

Wandless and in unknown terrain, he’s not in the best predicament. Panicking would be the worst possible thing to do, he knows, so he refrains from letting it fray his nerves. Instead, he stays silent and doesn’t move when he hears the crunch of snow coming up behind him.

He could really use his kettle right about now.

The hidebehind stops moving. Newt doesn't dare breathe, or move for that matter; he lies completely still, pressing himself into the mud in the hopes it’ll become distracted and forget about him. The cold pricks at his palms like needles, pinching his fingers until they feel as though they’ll never be able to move again.

Then it leaves.

Newt pushes himself to his knees, confused. If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t think his plan had much chance of working; hidebehinds are notorious for their tenacity, stalking prey for miles upon hours all in the name of the hunt. He squints into the dark, wary of a trick. But no, the pale shadow of the hidebehind is nowhere to seen. Instead, something else takes its place.

A pair of big, yellow eyes.

The fiery eyes move silently, circling around until it's right in front of him, all the while keeping his gaze. It slowly emerges from the trees, the shadows peeling back to reveal a short muzzle, followed by a thick, short-haired body.

The dizzy feelings stops all at once, the cat blinking and Newt’s free from the hypnosis he didn’t know he was under. Slowly, it saunters over to him, it’s paws, big as frying pans, barely making an impression in the snow. It has six legs, Newt notes, a grown wampus cat.

He doesn’t dare move as it makes its way closer, remaining still even as it huff out a hard breath and a couple of whiskers brush against his temples. Involuntarily, his eyes squeeze shut and he lets out a shaky breath just as something rough and wet laps at his forehead, and _oh_ , he’s being licked.

A soft rumble reverberates through the connection, and suddenly Newt thinks he understands what’s happening.

“Well, alright…”

* * *

 

He's able to sneak away from the female wampus before the sun sets the next day, but, unable to find his wand in the dying light, he stays out long after the sun has set. It's a big risk to search in the same place he'd been attacked, but he has no choice.

That is, until he spots the last person he expects to see in the dead of night. Even with the layers of clothes, a familiar face peeks out from the brim of a hat.

“Ms. Goldstein,” he says, surprised. “What are you doing out here?”

Ms. Goldstein ignores his question. She marches through the thick underbrush and muddy snow, her anger palpable. “Where have you been? You've been gone a whole day!” When she reaches him, the light at the tip of her wand finally illuminating him, she gets a good look at him. “Sweet Mary Joseph! What in the name of Merlin happened to you?”

“I took a short hike that lasted longer than I'd like.” Newt raises his hand to cover his eyes, squinting. “Would you mind lowering your wand?”

“You were taking a _hike_?” she says slowly, like she’s talking to a child, but does as he asks and lowers her wand. Once she’s at his side, she reaches out, only to stop herself. “You’re hurt!”

“I’m fine.”

Maybe it’s how he looks, shivering from the cold, or the way he’s holding himself, tightly wound, but Ms. Goldstein doesn’t believe him. She circles to his other side, catching sight of his ripped clothes and, without inquiring whether she should, she peels a piece of his coat to see the bloody mess underneath.

Newt skitters away, clutching his bad shoulder. “Oi!”

“Those look like claw marks! What kind of hike were you on?”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re lying! If you’re as fine as you say why haven’t you healed yourself?”

“I lost my wand.”

“You lost your—and you’re still saying you were just on a hike?”

“Yes. Do you mind…?”

Her stare makes Newt think that she does in fact mind, but she waves her wand nonetheless. “ _Accio_ wand.”

There’s a rush of action from down the hill and his wands comes racing from the trees. Newt’s sprinkled with snow as Ms. Goldstein snatches it out of the air. She hands it to him without a word.

“Come on.” She grips his elbow and, together, they make their way through the woods towards what Newt suspects is civilization. His cottage comes into view shortly (too short to Newt’s embarrassment), the lights from the day before still on and looking warmer than ever against the white backdrop of the woods behind it.

Ms. Goldstein ushers him inside, filing in right after. In any other situation, Newt would be embarrassed, having not bothered to clean up before he’d last left, but in a house that isn't his and with a woman he's only beginning to understand, he isn't affected as much as he should be. He merely lets Ms. Goldstein into the main room before heading straight for the small kitchen.

He summons all the items he needs, bandages and cloth floating from the cupboards to settle next to the basin already filling itself. He levitates a log into the dying fire and then scrounges around his case for Dittany, making sure to face the opening away from Ms. Goldstein—now would be a bad time for her to find out his case has an illegal charm casted on it.

His secrecy is all for naught, as she's still lingering in the main room when he glances in her direction, coat and all. He spots her holding a picture frame, the one with the smiling man and his sons. “You knew Mr. Jensen well?”

She jumps, looking guilty at being caught. The frame is hastily put back. “Not personally, but enough to know he’s a good man.” She watches him painstakingly pry off his coat. “You sure you don't want to go to Mrs. Panacea?”

He shakes his head. “I wouldn't want to inconvenience her—”

“You don't want to explain how you got hurt, you mean.”

Newt doesn't answer. He may have been integrating himself into the school’s lifestyle, but that doesn't mean he’s out of watchful eyes. One small slip and MACUSA would be breathing down his neck, this situation not shining him in the best of light. They wouldn't believe his story, even if what he said is true.

By attacking a human, the hidebehind would need to be dealt with, a danger that couldn't be allowed to remain so near the school. Howlers would flood the school if parents knew.

Newt was the one invading its territory, not that other way around, so if anyone is to blame, it’s him. He won’t let a creature, even one as temperamental and wild, be killed because of something he did. With how evasive it could be, the exterminators would end up killing more creatures than they intended, some of which had done nothing wrong.

Ms. Goldstein sighs, coming to his side. She slips off her coat and hat, rolling up the sleeves of her shirt, the epitome of professionalism. “If you're not going to the infirmary, then at least let me help.”

Common colds and simple cuts could be dealt with, but injury from a magical creature had to be taken of very carefully. No simple spell would heal it, which complicated everything. If he had time, Newt would determine the possible treatments himself, jotting down the symptoms that came from a Hidebehind attack, but now is not the time. With this in mind, he accepts her offer with a quick nod.

While he deals with his tie, Ms. Goldstein works on his buttons, and together they gets his jacket off, then his waistcoat. His clothes catch on the cut where they’re ripped, scraping it, and he refrains from showing how painful it actually is. He's dealt with far worse.

Finally, after some trouble with the buttons at his sleeves, he’s free of his shirt, leaving his torso bare and in view of his company. Mrs. Goldstein isn't vocal in her observation of his battered skin, but goosebumps erupt along his flesh nonetheless at the unusual attention. She catches his eye, her eyebrows raising, and Newt frowns, looking away, but doesn't offer an explanation. Dealing with beasts could be dangerous even for professionals, so injury was common. It came with the trade, scars their most common currency.

She sends his coat off to hang itself, casting a number of cleaning spells on it as it goes. Almost timidly, her hand settles on his arm, the touch warmer than the heating spell she casted on the room and the fire combined, and Newt’s startled. He nearly jumps, physical contact almost foreign to him in the time he's been deprived of it. “Sit.”

He does as she commands, sitting in the wooden chair. It screeches like a tone-deaf fwooper when he settles his weight on it, loud in the near silent house. Newt keeps his attention on the floor, a not so quiet voice that sounds oddly like his brother’s going off about propriety and decency.

Perhaps he should have gone to Mrs. Panacea.

Ms. Goldstein’s movements are clinical, if not a bit frantic, wiping away the dirt that managed to get under his clothes, magically refilling the basin with clean water when it gets too filthy, and even using a _tergeo_ spell on his body once or twice. She talks as she works. “Some of your students came to me when you didn't show up for your afternoon class.”

That's new. Newt knew his absence would be noticed, but he hadn't expect anyone to act on it (students were generally happier when their classes were canceled). Then again, being a professor is inherently more different than working in the Beast Division at the Ministry. There he'd go off for days and no one would think it odd or inconvenient, unless, of course, the head of his department was feeling prickly and demanded he work on what little and boring work he had on his desk.

“There wasn't anything to worry about.”

For some reason, not many people believe him when he tries to reassure them, even with subjects that are in his field of expertise. Ms. Goldstein is the same.

She snorts. “Ending up lost on school grounds, getting attacked by a deadly beast, losing your wand—I'm surprised you've survived this long, Mr. Scamander.”

Now that’s unnecessary, Newt thinks, as he’s more than capable of taking care of himself. “Why did they come to you, may I ask?”

“I just told you. You didn’t show up—”

“Yes, but why you?” he asks. “Why not the Headmistress?”

“Because I was supposed to be supervising your class today or did you forget?”

He did, but he’s not going to tell her that. “I remembered.”

“I’m sure you did.”

He'd like her to leave very much. The sooner she did, the sooner he could check up on his creatures. With how long he's been gone, who knows how they're faring—hungry most likely. Besides, his wound isn’t as bad as she thinks.

“Thank you for your help, Ms. Goldstein, but I can handle it from here.” He pushes the basin away from her and reaches for the cleaning cloth. “I’m sure you're a fine witch, but best for me to wait until the morning and have Ms. Panacea look at it, I think. Now, if you don’t mind—“

Without warning, she presses the cloth onto his cuts, _hard_.

He yelps. “Bloody hell!”

“Sorry.” Ms. Goldstein’s voice is flat and she meets his glare with one of her own. She pulls the supplies back towards her rather forcefully and continues on with her work the same as before. She starts applying dittany, frowning at his shoulder, and Newt suspects that it's not working as it should. “What were you even doing exploring the woods all by yourself?”

Newt frowns at his hands, stubbornly keeping silent. None of what he does is her business and he doesn’t have to tell her anything, but he doesn’t say that (or else she might just hurt him again) because he’s sure she won’t take that as an acceptable answer. He can get out of many situations, but this woman is more determined than anyone he’s ever encountered, a brick wall that won’t budge without an explosive spell.

Ms. Goldstein pokes his good shoulder. “Well?”

“I was researching magical creatures native to America,” he finally admits.

“Isn’t that why you’ve been having trouble with the library? Doesn’t that have all you need?”

“Most libraries are severely lacking in my field.” he says. “That is why I’m writing a book about magical creatures. I’ve just spent a year in the field, so I think I’m more knowledgeable than some outdated books.”

“I heard. Like an extermination guide, right?”

“No. It’s a guide to help people understand why we should be protecting these creatures instead of killing them.” Newt tenses when Ms. Goldstein steps around him to wipe at his collarbone, either purposely oblivious or too focused on her work to notice his uncomfortableness. “But this is for something else. I've been researching all magical creatures native to America.”

She glances up at his face. “What for?”

An indignant squeak intrudes on them. Pickett fusses from his position in the folds of Newt’s shirt that he’d discarded haplessly. Ignoring Ms. Goldstein’s objections, Newt picks up the bowtruckle and shushes him. “It’s alright, Pickett.”

Pickett waves his tiny spindly limbs, raging at Newt as he climbs his arm. It's clear to see that he's in trouble. In all the ruckus he'd endured navigating through the forest, the bowtruckle hadn’t let out a peep, but now he would get his well-deserved chastising. “No, I didn't forget about you. I didn’t.”

“Sit still!” Ms. Goldstein grabs his good shoulder only to hastily yank her hand back as Pickett swipes at her. “Hey!”

Newt hurriedly gathers him in his palms again before anyone got hurt. “Now Pickett, she's only helping.”

Pickett shows Newt just what he thinks about his words by blowing a raspberry.

“You know I don’t like it when you do that,” he says, frowning. “Come now, she’s almost done.”

They don’t have time for Pickett to calm down. Newt sets him on his head, to which the little critter settles in his hair where he can watch Ms. Goldstein. If Newt tries hard enough he can ignore the constant stream of his tantrum.

With the danger of getting scratched out of the way, Ms. Goldstein finishes her cleaning and, stepping in front of him with the roll of bandages, begins dressing his wound. It’s then that Newt fully realizes how intimate and close one has to be to apply bandages, the feel of her breath faint against his skin. He’s always coveted keeping others at a reasonable distance, only allowed it under his terms, especially in more intimate circumstances, but this moment breaks all the rules and walls he’s meticulously built to keep himself safe.

“Relax, will you,” Ms. Goldstein says, and it takes strenuous effort to not shy away from her touch. “The sooner you sit still, the sooner I’m done.”

He faces straight forward, hands settled on his knees, and determinedly recites the different subspecies of horklumps. Time seems to drag, prolonging the moment far longer than he’d like, and when Ms. Goldstein is finally done, he tries to hide his relief. She does a quick look at her work, stepping behind him again, for which Newt’s thankful. “What’s this from?”

“Hm?” Carefully, Newt cranes to spot what she’s looking at; he’s unable to actually see the scar, but he’s positive he knows the one she’s referring to. “Dragon. Caught me right at my back with her tail.”

“How did it manage that?”

“No one had bothered to check whether she was pregnant,” Newt explains. “Female Iron Bellies are more violent when they’re expecting.”

“Looks like it hurt.”

“Not really,” Newt lies. “Anyway, it was an accident.”

Her fingers brush against his skin. “You seem to have a lot of accidents.”

Immediately, his skin erupts in goosebumps and he decides that this is where he draws the line. He stands, intending to show her out, and in his haste his chair topples over. His back smarts in protest, making him grimace.

In a flash, she's by his side, one hand curling around his bicep while the other grips his hip. “You're going to hurt yourself.”

Goosebumps erupt along his skin, but he doesn't push her away. “I'm fine.”

They stare at each other until Ms. Goldstein blinks. By her expression Newt thinks she come to a realization, possibly at how late it is. Almost immediately, she retracts her hands and steps back, leaving him chilled. “Yes. Good. I’ll just... be on my way then.”

Now it’s Newt’s turn to be surprised. He’d thought she’d be more insistent to stay, if only to make sure he didn’t do anything to worsen his condition. In fact, he thought he’d have to argue to get her to the door, with how insistent she’s been. He then wonders why he’s worrying over this in the first place. She's finished and has no reason to stay, so she’ll be on her way and finally leave him be, just like he wanted.

“Allow me to, um, walk you back,” he offers in spite of himself, if only to be polite. He sure he has a spare shirt in his case, but he’s not so sure about outside of it. He looks around, but only spots his ripped one. A repairing charm leaves it dirty, but fixed, and Newt attempts to shoulder it on.

Ms. Goldstein stops him as he fumbles with the first button. “No, no—I can—” She swallows loudly. “I can walk myself, thank you.”

Strangely enough, the sound of her voice is off, higher pitched, like a fwooper beginning to panic. It's completely different than the attitude from a moment ago and the twist throws Newt off.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she says in that strange voice again. She grabs her wand from the table and heads for the door, more rushed than before. It looks like she’s running from something.

Newt follows.

She spins around suddenly, nearly running into him, only to jump away like he's a venomous tentacula, ready to strike. “Forgot my coat.”

Newt nods, unsure at what's happening between them. The room is suddenly too stuffy, too small with the both of them, and Newt doesn’t know what to do beside what she wants. He summons her coat, handing it over, and Ms. Goldstein practically snatches out of his hands. Their hands don't touch.

“Don’t let this happen again,” she commands, hurriedly pulling on her coat, her tone attempting to be angry, but falling flat. She stares at him a moment longer before clearing her throat and spinning on her heel, hurrying out and up the hill so quickly Newt would think a pesky ghost is at her heels.

Pickett chitters and Newt hums back, just as confused.

* * *

 

He doesn’t feel any better the next morning; he feels worse, actually. His shoulder burns the moment he wakes, continues to be a pain through his morning routine. One look at the wound in the morning light shows ugly, red claw marks that curve down his shoulder where the hidebehind had grabbed him, and Newt grimaces at his reflection. It won’t be a quick and easy healing process.

Breakfast is a silent affair on his part. No one gives it much notice, the main attention on Ephedra and Mr. Nachin and their recent practical joke, for which poor Mr. Hidalgo had ended up being in the middle of. It has something to do with sticking charm and confiscated fireworks, but nothing much of it can be said because they keep speaking over one another. They’re rowdy and passionate and it’s easy for Newt to be overlooked and ignored.

He gets through his toast alright, but lifting his tea is downright impossible. The difficulty with such a simple action has him thinking about the upcoming weekend, how rambunctious his students are at Babington, and has him forgoing his usual solitude and deciding to see Mrs. Panacea. Once breakfast has ended and Ms. Goldstein has left the table and is nowhere in sight, he slips through the far side door. His shoulder throbs with every step, rendering him sluggish and irritated.

Ending up lost doesn’t help his mood.

“I only need to find the infirmary,” Newt says, exasperated. “I’ll know my way back from there.”

Despite supposedly helping one get to exactly where they ought to be, the Rotating Staircase has somehow led him astray. Now it’s only him with the paintings again, none of them lending any help to get to the infirmary.

He’s trapped in a conversation he can’t get out of with the worst of the bunch. “Now, Mr. English,” Redfield says, “you must believe me when I say I’m the most reliable with directions.”

Newt highly doubts it. He’s tempted to say his opinion aloud, even if leads to the portrait spreading even more gossip about him throughout the school, if only he could get away, but someone beats him to it.

“Looks like you’re enjoying yourself,” someone says behind him. Newt turns and sees Mr. Nachin walking towards him. He looks amused.

Newt frowns at him as Redfield says, “Ah, Professor Nachin! How wonderful to see you!”

Mr. Nachin tips his hat. “Same to you, General. I couldn’t help but overhearing. You’re trying to direct Mr. Scamander to the infirmary, is that right?”

“Right you are!” The portrait leans forward and, in what he believes is a whisper, says, “He has been rather difficult. His kind usually are—Brits—but I’ve insisted that I’m the best man for the job! Not even the ghosts know more about this school than I!”

“There’s no one better suited.” Mr. Nachin sends a grin to Newt and he tries not to scoff.

Redfield claps his hands, oblivious to Newt’s disbelief. “Exactly! It may surprise you, Mr. English, but not only am I a distinguished general, but I was considered the best architect of my time,” he says. “I know all the twists and turns this great school offers. In fact, in eighteen-thirty-six, I was asked by the then current Ilvermorny Headmaster to build an addition to the school. Wonderful man, that Geralt Hughes—excellent beard. Not as well-kept as my own, but I must admit—”

“And what a mighty fine specimen it is,” Mr. Nachin says genially. “Now, there’s nothing I'd rather do than discuss facial hair than with you, Daedaus, but I’m here to retrieve Mr. Scamander for the Headmistress.”

Newt thinks that it makes not a difference to explain, as the painting will keep chatting away no matter what they say, but then, something amazing happens. The painting stops his story and, shockingly, appears aghast. “Really? Then please accept my apologies for keeping you for so long!”

“It’s alright.” Mr. Nachin casually throws an arm over Newt’s shoulders, covertly pulling him away from the wall. Newt tries not to wince. “I’ll make sure to tell Newt of all your methods to grow and manage his own beard on the way there—Sayre knows he needs it.”

Newt rubs his jaw, somewhat offended. He’d never cared about his lack of facial hair until now. Then again, he’d never been surrounded with men with such extensive beards, putting any of his previous attempts to shame.

“Excellent! I’ll leave him in your trustworthy care.” Redfield says, fixing his jacket. “Give Headmistress Peregrine my best, won’t you?”

“You have my word.”

“Right.” The general salutes. “Good day then, gentlemen!” Then he’s gone, an empty frame in his wake.

“And that is how you escape the bull,” Mr. Nachin says under his breath when he herds Newt away.

“Thank you.” Newt feels worry build in his chest. “Is there something Madame Peregrine wants to discuss with me?”

“What? Oh, no, no, I made that up.” Mr. Nachin laughs like he knows a secret. “The General has the utmost respect for the Headmistress, so I’ve learned to use that excuse whenever necessary—which is all the time.”

“Then why were you looking for me?”

“I need an accomplice.”

“Excuse me?”

“Me and Ephedra have what you might call a competition between us.” He looks around at their surroundings like he’s expecting something or someone to jump out of the shadows. “I’m currently on the losing side, but you can change that. She trusts you. I can use that to my advantage.”

“As tempting as that is, I’ll have to decline.” Newt enjoys watching the two of them best the other in a never ending game of wit, but he doesn’t want to be the one to cross Ephedra. The woman is absolutely formidable.

Mr. Nachin stops him from leaving (not that he knew where he was going). “Now hear me out. She’ll be too busy helping out with the Formal to retaliate. And since you’re new, she won’t do anything to you. If anything, she’ll get back at me.”

“And you want that?”

“Adds a little spice to life.” He nudges Newt with his elbow, waggling his eyebrows like the boys in Newt’s common room did whenever they were talking about a dame that had caught their eye. “She’s a real spitfire.”

“Am I going to regret this?”

“Probably.” Mr. Nachin says. “I’ll make it worth your wild. I have a man down in Mexico who deals with exotic beasts—legally, of course. It's come to my attention that he’s gotten his hands on one of them Re’ems. You’re interested in that sort of stuff, aren't you?”

Now that’s something of interest. The oxen beasts are extremely rare nowadays with the high demand of their blood. William had said they used to roam the eastern part of the continent, but early Americans settlers cleared them out so that there were no more than a few in the wild left. Newt has been wanting to study one for some time and finds that he’ll take any chance at coming across one alive.

He hasn’t even agreed to help, but knows his interest is obvious by the way Mr. Nachin smiles. “You have my attention, Mr. Nachin.”

“I knew I liked you!” the man cheers. “And enough formalities. Call me Hector.”

“Then call me Newt.”

“Excellent!” Hector says. “Here’s what I’m thinking…”

* * *

 

Something heavy clatters beside Newt’s hand, startling him awake.

“—are you even listening?”

He blinks away the daydream that’d come over him. He steadies the clay pot before it spills over.  “Sorry? What did you say?”

Ephedra looks cross. He must have been unresponsive for some time. “That’s the third time I’ve had to wake you up,” she says. “Almost considered using a mandrake root as an alarm.”

Newt slowly sits up in his seat, brushing off the dirt and leaves that had collected in his hair, and tries to make himself appear awake, no mandrake necessary. He wouldn’t be up to deal with the piercing screams of the plant and would mostly likely faint. “Sorry about that.”

It’s not hard to lose himself in her workspace. The greenhouse is much larger than the one at Hogwarts (or maybe Newt  the one who’s grown too big for the place in his memory), with twice as many rows and three times the diversity of plants, and a small pond on the far end, equipped with an small, yet elegant stone-carved fountain. What Ephedra refers as her office is merely a wooden table bracketed by shelves.

“From how you look, Newt, I would think you’re a student. I suggest you keep to a schedule. The papers won’t grade themselve.” Ephedra shovels out the compost from the bag and into the pots in front of her. “Trust me, we’ve all tried.”

“No, no, I’m not behind on grading.” Newt idly rubs the less tender part of his shoulder. He’d never made it to the infirmary and had barely a chance to change his bandages after his chat with Hector before making it to his first class. That had been a dreadful affair and Newt is more than sure that he’s become less than popular with his impromptu essay. “My shoulder has been giving me hell since the other day. Can barely fall asleep.”

“Working with creatures, I would think you’re use to it,” she says. “Did you have a particularly bad fall on your daylong walk?”

Newt huffs. “Surely you know. Ms. Goldstein was insistent that the Headmistress be told—no doubt the entire school knows already.”

“You mean about your little excursion? Didn’t you lose track of time?” Ephedra waves her wand. The greenhouse is bathed in more sunlight, coating the glass and and plants in a warm gold that makes it appear all the more scenic. Newt thinks he’ll have to strip himself of his jacket soon. “She didn’t tell Headmistress anything besides that.”

Now that’s a surprise. “She didn’t?”

Ephedra squints suddenly, suspicious. She stops, turning so her focus is on Newt rather than her plants. “Should she have?”

“Nothing happened.” At her raised eyebrow, Newt corrects himself. “Nothing that wasn’t dealt with.”

“I’ve only known you for a short while, Newt, but we both know that what you consider as ‘fine’ isn’t the same as the average wizard. Is there something I need to know?”

“Thank you for the concern,” Newt says, “but I’m fine. Truly. Ms. Goldstein helped me care for a minor wound and that’s it.”

“Minor... but it’s big enough that it’s still bothering you.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Ephedra hums. Before Newt can say anything, she abandons her work, heading directly toward her cupboard. It’s as cluttered as the one in his own workshop, bags of seed piled at the bottom while jars and vials of plant ingredients are haphazardly strewn on the shelves. She rummages around, the clinking of her jars the only sound, and crows in success when she’s found what she’s been looking for. She lays down a jar in front of him triumphantly.

“What’s this?”

“An ointment that’s been passed down in my family for generations.” She goes back to her previous work, eyeing the pitiful plant before her. A snap of her fingers and it slowly unwilts. “Use it once a day before you go to bed, no more than that.”

It smells like the wilderness just outside, an undertone of honey giving it a homey scent that has Newt involuntarily relaxing. For a moment he considers refusing the offer, but if he he attempts to hand it back, he knows he’ll be met with a stubborn refusal. This is one argument that’s utterly unconquerable.  “Thank you.”

She hands him earmuffs, putting on her own pair, and goes back to her mandrakes. “Be more careful next time. Now,” she says, “if you faint, try and fall on the tomatoes.”

* * *

 

The next afternoon, he's greeted by three first-years as his door. Two boys and a girl.

“Ah, yes, Madame Peregrine informed me how you're to be my charges for the afternoon.” Newt smiles pleasantly, standing from his stool and dusting his hands on his trousers. “How do you do?”

Three, identically blank faces stare at him.

“Right, yes, hm… names?”

“Jonathan Crane.”

“Elisabeth Vargas.”

“Robert Calderon.”

“Calderon…” Newt hums thoughtfully. “You wouldn't be related to Thomas Calderon, would you?”

The smaller boy cross his arms over his chest. “He's my brother.”

“Really? He’s one of my top students.”

“Swell.”

That certainly isn't the response he expected. Newt wonders if he’s botched up somehow; he can never get first impressions right, it seems. He coughs, awkward. “Right, well, we'd best get started.”

They follow him in and Newt tries not to show that his walk is completely off. Like always with the Headmistress, her decisions seem to end up for his benefit. Being as sore as he is, help is a gift in the disguise of a punishment.

“It's nothing terribly exciting, but work is work, no matter how dull.”

He walks the first-years to the small room that acts as his office. The size doesn't bother Newt much (he has his case if he needs more room), treating it more like an extension of the classroom. He makes use of it when one of the less dangerous of his creatures needs to be separated from the rest. It’s as cluttered as his shed, but it fulfills its purpose for when he needs to keep up an appearance outside of his case.

None of the students have questioned when one creature pops up unannounced or where he gets them. They most likely assume he makes a call to a contact to have them shipped overseas or wherever one might get attain exotic creatures. He wonders how most American dealers get their supplies and if he should bother to inquire about it.

His fwooper wakes when he enters, fluttering her wings at the sight of him.

“Hello there, Katharine,” he greets with feeling, stroking her chest with the back of his finger. “You are looking lovely today.”

The fwooper lets out a shrill croak and he sways, mind going fuzzy until the last echo. He rights himself immediately after, leveling a stern look onto the small bird.

“Now, I'll have none of that nonsense. It's no way for a proper lady like yourself to behave,” he scolds gently. “You know you have to take the syrup if you want your voice to come back. Don't you want to be able to sing again, hm?”

Bright pink plumage rise, making her appear twice her size.

“I assure you, it's not that bad.” He’d tried his hardest to make the taste bearable, but some medicine, no matter how good, is destined to taste disgusting. He summons the bottle mixture he’d made an hour earlier, taking Katharine into his arms. She settles in the crook of his arm immediately, gaze pinned to the bottle intently.

He lowers it and the small bird extends her neck upward, head jerking back and forth as she feeds. The taste doesn't settle with the bird, as seen by how she falters slightly in the first few swallows, so he hums a nursery rhyme to try and ease the process. Katharine enjoys the tune, talons curling until they are hidden among the feathers fanning at her stomach. He hums a little louder, rocking, and watches the small thing lull itself into a state of contentedness.

“Sir?”

Newt jumps at the voice and looks up, surprised to find three pairs of eyes watching him curiously. He had forgotten all about them.

“So sorry,” he says, rising and walking to his usual work station. He inspects each bucket, finding them empty. He needs to get everything in order if this is to be a productive evening, except he has his arms full with a relaxed fwooper.

“Do anyone of you have experience with birds?”

The girl, Elisabeth, tentatively raises her hand. “My uncle runs an owlery.”

“Wonderful. I’ll have you take her off my hands for a moment—” Katharine gives a slightly disorienting-inducing peep, but otherwise slides from his arms to the girl’s easily. “Keep her steady—yes, just like that. Now, hold the bottle—higher, lower—no, sorry, higher. There we go. Be sure she drinks all of it.”

“Isn't that a fwooper?”

Katharine isn't the most exotic of creatures, but it's still a surprise to hear one of the boys correctly identify her species. “Katharine is a fwooper, yes—African descent, class three. Their call is enchanting to humans—that is, until it drives you mad.” Miss Elisabeth looks at him alarmed, but he waves it off. “She's too weak for her song to addle your brain.”

“Oh… that's good.”

“Once she's gotten over her cold, I'll put a silencing charm on her. For now keep near a chair if you can. She’s prone to start singing—even with a sore throat, she’s a performer.” He smiles, endlessly fond, when the fwooper stops her feeding and let's out a croaky trill. “Praise her when she does. She's been in a rut for some time.”

With Katharine dealt with, Newt moves on to the next item on his to-do list, scooping up Pickett from the table and depositing him on his shoulder as he goes. He should’ve have prepared earlier, but a small uprising with the occamies concerning their breakfast portions had taken up most of the morning, and then he’d had his classes to deal with.

“Now where did I…” He peers in his suitcase, scanning his workshop for the bag of compost he swore he had. No luck, he must have moved it. “Any one of you see compost out there?”

“Here,” Robert says. He points to a bag in the corner of the room, hidden by the nets Newt tossed aside some days ago.

“Perfect.” He transfigures one of the nearby chairs into a wheelbarrow. There’s one about, he's sure, but the time spent searching for it would be a waste. “Mr. Calderon, Mr. Crane, if you both would give me a hand.”

Robert scrunches his nose, but comes closer while the other boy grabs the other end. “Is this…?”

“Dragon dung fertilizer.” Newt would've used excrements from his mooncalves, but there wasn't nearly enough for what he needed. Better to wait for a full moon when they did their lunar dance.

“What are you planting?”

“Bursting mushrooms, bitterroot, and venomous tentacula. Venomous tentacula are quite nasty, so they need to be separated appropriately. Don’t want them to strangle the other plants.” He throws the empty bag to the side, wiping his hands on his trousers. “We'll be setting down the soil and building the barrier today.”

“ _Strangle—?”_

“Mr. Cane, could you please get the tools. They're on the worktable. Thank you. Now, Mr. Calderon, grab those packets.” He pauses, looking at Katharine and the way her eyes follow him. “Miss Vargas, I'd recommend you follow us so she keeps me in sight. It would be horrible if she started to panic and knocked you unconscious—bring the chair with you.”

“Uh, professor…”

“Yes?”

Jonathan points to the other end of the classroom. “The door’s that way.”

“Yes, yes, a room. I've forgotten about the room… let me—” He pats his pockets, finding his wand in his left. ”—here we go.”

Trial and error with his case has him forgoing any verbal commands, merely flicking his wand just so. The wall groans, parting for a wooden door to fill the space. It opens to reveal an open room, glass making up the walls. A small greenhouse, just what he needs.

“Right.” He rolls up his sleeves. “Come along you three—let's get to work.”

* * *

 

Newt gets a letter the following afternoon and, for the first time in Ilvermorny, finds nothing wrong with it. He catches Ms. Goldstein looking in his direction and hurriedly glances down at his mother’s letter, his face warm.

There’s still the situation with her that had to be dealt with. Even he knows when he’s gone too far, acting like a git to a woman who’d done him a service. He’ll have to apologize, but he doesn’t know how to go about it. No one likes admitting they’re wrong and he’s no exception.

“Are you alright, Newt?” Ephedra asks. “You look like you swallowed a lemon.”

“I’m fine,” he says. “Just a bit of trouble at home with my mother’s hippogriffs.”

“Oh, yes, your family breeds them! Pity we don’t have any of them for the stables anymore—gone along with the winged-horses.” The woman shakes her head, fond. “I remember there being a herd of them near my village. Sad to see them go.”

“Why were they removed from Ilvermorny?” he asks so to get his mind off his predicament. “I thought only the breeding of magical creatures were prohibited.”

“Some wizards apply for special permits to home the more genial beasts,” Hector says past his toast. “My sister has a herd of Granians at the ranch back home. They’re the fastest in the states.”

“Take off your hat!” Mrs. Barrow tells him. “We’re indoors!”

Ephedra ignores them. “Those permits are hard to come by—”

“They’re downright expensive!” Hector sets his worn hat on the table by the eggs. Judging by Mrs. Barrow’s expression, it isn’t an improvement. “Ilvermorny works the same way. Professor Jensen was the only one permitted to handle the beasts, so Headmistress had to have them moved when he left.”

“Usually the creatures are relocated to neighboring tribes away from large cities, but it always isn’t that easy.” Ephedra’s expression turns sour. “When they can’t find homes for all of them, MACUSA takes it into their own hands. Whether or not they do what’s best is debatable.”

Newt frowns. He’s not surprised, not really—the same thing happens in England and in most magical communities he’s visited—but that doesn’t mean he liked being reminded of how ill most wizards treated magical creatures. And now, because of a silly law, the Americans were limiting the future generation of wizards, depriving them of understanding common creatures. Hippogriffs ad winged-horses posed no danger if only one took the time to listen and understand their language.

He glances down at his mother’s letter again, reading through her message again.

She has her hands full with a cold that seems to be running through the herd ( _none of the hatchlings, a miracle in itself_ ), so she couldn't personally travel to America. Newt knew if she came, these Americans would certainly learn a thing or two about hippogriffs and, maybe, be that much closer to realizing how absolutely rubbish their law is.

At the bottom of the letter, a small note.

_I'll send them right over._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little rough around the edges, so I'll edit it sometime in the future. I just wanted to get out and posted! Probably change a few sentences/paragraphs here and there, fix the action and general flow, but nothing major.
> 
> Kudos and comments are welcome!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _limerence - n. the state of being infatuated with another person_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a while, but look! I’m not dead! It took so long because this chapter is 2x longer than the rest (approx 12k words). Hope you guys enjoy it!

The weeks leading up to Winter Formal are a strange thing to observe.

Now, with Christmas only a month away, the school goes through another metamorphosis. The autumn colors are replaced with red, greens, and whites, wreaths of pine and evergreens on every door, holly spinning around columns and in between banisters. The halls smell like peppermint and the kitchen is all the more alluring when he passes by it’s doors, the promise of a taste of homemade delights inviting him to take a quick peek while the house elves convince him to stay and try their recent kettle at tea. There’s the caroling of the school choir, the low baritones of the toads accompanying the sweet trill of a soprano and the muted jingles that echo through the chest plates of the suits of armor that guard the school. Mixed in are more delightful sounds, bells and horns and instruments of all kinds, singing voices like those of a nightingale’s, and, although Newt can never find it, he’s often heard a grand piano playing a melodious piece that can be heard anywhere within the castle.

There’s more snowfall, burying half of the courtyards, leaving the pukwudgies irritated and the school looking like the inside of a snow globe, the little figurines of children playing carelessly in thick robes and winding scarves. It all reminds him that he hasn’t been home for Christmas for some time, researching abroad for a year and now stuck in Ilvermorny for another. His mother would have a word for him, no doubt.

The school runs as it usually does, efficiently if not a smudge haphazardly. Students run around like headless chickens, fractic in every sense of the word. Classes go according to schedule, exams are fretted over, and Newt catches a couple or two students in empty rooms and closets with the transparent excuse of keeping warm, only to let them go with a minor warning. He sees groups of giggling girls and flighty boys at opposite ends of a room, fleeting glances between students in study hall, and whispered conversations in the middle of his lectures. He sees the rejections and the happy acceptances, the disheartened and the delighted, and is glad that his school days are behind him, no need to fret over dates and the views of his peers anymore.

He offers Pickett a dab of honey from his spoon as he watches Mildred in the Thunderbird table state rather loudly that they had to have chrysanthemums instead of peonies for the upcoming dance and anyone thinking otherwise was an idiot. It doesn’t mean a lick to Newt, but must be important for Mildred and a fifth-year because they soon begin an argument that only grows with each passing word, one that’s passionate enough to get Ms. Barrow to leave her seat.

Newt turns his attention elsewhere and leaves his student to her fate. “Do you have prefects?” he asks Ephedra, pointedly ignoring the scolding that reaches the faculty table. “A head boy or girl?”

“Oh, no, the students decide a committee instead. Eight students, two from each house, act as representatives. They then vote one of the committee as president.”

“It changes every year,” Mrs. Cannon says.

“Were you a prefect, Newt?” Hector asks straight-faced, then laughs. “Can’t imagine you were.”

Ephedra has the grace to be offended on Newt’s behalf even though he’s sure they all know the undeniable answer to that question. “You weren’t any better, Hector. You always convinced the brigades to start fights in Professor Burgoyne’s classroom!”

“That old coot kept insisting that the Confederates won the war,” Hector says passionately. “I reckon I saved our education!”

Newt grins, sipping his tea, only to very nearly spit it out (too much milk). He sets it aside to focus on the new story that may or may not be exaggerated for dramatic effect. Hector likes to tell him of his many feats, both in his school days and his time riding through the American West, some of which could actually be true.

At his left, Mrs. Barrow resumes her seat, scoffing at a particular heroic tale that has something to do with a jackalope and three self-tying cravats, and that’s when Newt meets Ms. Goldstein’s gaze from a further down the table. She offers him a hesitant smile before she catches herself. They both look away.

“—Newt?”

He turns back to the conversation at present. “I’m sorry?”

Hector’s tosses his spoon and it lands in Newt’s tea. “I was asking about the kind of trouble you got into at Hogwarts. I bet it was spectacular.”

Newt rubs his neck. The trouble he got into at Hogwarts was a bit dangerous— sneaking out into the Forbidden Forest and visiting centaurs as a first-year, then diving into the deeper parts of the lake in his third just to see if the stories were true and the merfolk really did have kelp for hair— and it’s something he only recognized after years of time spent on the road, and he’d rather not say anything aloud with the students within earshot. “Not quite…”

Instead of delving into his childhood he tells of the time he set his desk at the Ministry ablaze after misplacing a clutch of ashwinder eggs. Among the usual laughs, Newt’s sure there’s one that he’s never heard before.

* * *

Beside the confines of his case, visiting the Wampus Cats brings peace.

This time around he makes sure to keep track of time and what route he takes, as well as keep a lookout for anything that might be stalking him. No matter how good he is with magical creatures, there will always be some that don’t like him, and the hidebehind that lives in the forest is madder than most creatures he’s dealt with.

Inside the cave where the mother wampus cat raises her cubs is one of the safest places on the mountain, Newt is sure. Settled in the hard rock it has a low ceiling and goes fairly deep into the mountain, hidden by a cluster of pines, so no one would spot it unless they knew where to look. He hardly thinks the mother wampus leaves the cubs for long, so with her patrolling the woods nearby, possible predators like the Hidebehind wouldn’t dare venture near. This high up the mountain and with a family to take care of, the likelihood for the wampus mother to take a detour to the Muggle town  is slim.

“Glad to know you aren't the ones causing the Muggles trouble,” he tells her, rubbing along the base of her skull. She grumbles, shoulder pressing into his chest. Newt lets himself fall back, her body heat enough to ward off the occasional breeze that slips through the trees hiding the cave entrance. “Maybe the hidebehind?”

The wampus cat grumbles again, something low and raspy, digging her forepaws into his sides. Newt takes that as a ‘no.’

“I don’t think so either. It’s a rambunctious fellow alright, but it stays in its territory—”

The big cat growls a warning.

“Yes, sorry, your territory.” He digs his nails into the fur behind her ears as an apology. “Didn’t mean to offend.”

And he lays there, thinking. Never too good at legilimency himself, he doesn’t know how a wizard perceives the thoughts of others, much less organize into coherent ideas and thought. Minds are messy things, human minds even more so. Beasts are simpler, more honest, and he wonders what the wampus cat makes of what’s inside his head. Basic concepts are universal—fear, hunger, desire, everything that made living beings strive for life—but the complexity of his situation, the social constructs and coordination of relationships, may just be too much for her.

“What do you think I should do?” he asks for no other reason than to get it out into the open.

The wampus mother raises her head to look at him and Newt thinks for a moment that she’ll give him an answer. She yawns and sends the smell of her last meal of stag in his direction.

Newt huffs. She can read his thoughts, but she can’t project her own, and that’s where the problem lies. “I could apologize… she’s been very helpful… not as much as Ephedra, but more so than Ms. Barrow—I’m more than positive that that woman wants nothing to do with me.”

The rumble the cat makes is deep, giving him an almost tickling feeling across his stomach. She lays her head back down on his chest and Newt grins at the jagged ceiling. “Yes, I wonder why too.” He quickly remembers the problem at hand. “Ms. Goldstein is… nice enough, I suppose. A stickler for rules, even the ones that don’t make sense.”

There’s a small commotion in the corner, the cubs beginning to wake from their nap. They blink and stumble and make a fuss before finally spotting him, and run mewling to him, not hesitating to climb whatever part of him is free. He laughs when the youngest jumps on his face, gnawing on the wisp of his hair. “Careful or you’ll hurt Pickett.”

They don’t listen so Newt sits himself up to escape their attacks and checks his pocket watch. Almost time for his last class of the day. The wampus mother willingly rolls off him, but sets to wash him, traveling up his neck to the top of his head. He thinks his hair will soon permanently stick out if she keeps this up; even if he needs to clean himself up every time he leaves, Newt quite enjoys socializing with this little family and lingers a little bit longer.

He could allow himself this one break and deal with the consequences of tardiness. He presses his forehead against hers. “Now how about a name, hm?”

* * *

 

Hector is, Newt finds out, a fine opponent for Ephedra.

He is her opposite, loud and boisterous, childish even;  no one else seems fit to take up the challenge of her game of cat and mouse, much less handle their own. Not only does he enjoy the challenge, he’s incredibly confident, so much that he openly asks Newt for items and the like that might give him an edge, from his stock of exotic plants to his collection of contraptions. (Newt gives him all of his confiscated fireworks, which is easier than questioning why a man might need kappa trappings and porlock hairs.) They would gather dust with him, but he thinks that Hector would put them to good use.

As the formal draws ever closer, the Headmistress requests he do his part and help, Ephedra being the ever insistent messenger. Not wanting to be a snitch, Newt’s unable to refuse. He leaves Hector to his scheming and helps while he waits for the surprise like everyone else.

The Hall is bursting with energy when he enters, students, pukwudgies, and house elves going to and fro to make sure everything’s in order. Already, most of the usual dining tables have been cleared, replaced with those more suited for a ball. Mr. Hidalgo is painstakingly floating every ornament to its desired place on the enormous evergreen residing in the center of the Great Hall, the tips of its leaves already charmed with glinting frost, but besides that, most of the work is being done without magic. (Despite the stereotype of laziness, Americans did seem to value magicless work.)

“Easier to remember that magic isn't always the best way,” Ephedra says when he comes up to where she’s livening up some holly. She pointedly glances at the Charms professor. “Some physical work could do wonders to some egos.”

Newt grins, but says nothing about her own use of magic. “I take it you’re in charge?”

“Why yes,” she says proudly, “and I already have the perfect job for you. Is your shoulder feeling up to hard labor?”

“Yes.” Her ointment did wonders, only a mild discomfort popping up now and again. “What do you have in mind?”

Hard labor entails him being a carrier of sorts, taking supplies from one place to another, called upon by whoever is in need of him. First on his list, half a dozen or so crates of napkin ties and goblet coasters, where they’ll be be set up by the fourth years helping out. Another crate, filled to the rim with utensils that _clinks_ and _clanks_ as he walks, go to the very end of the Horned Serpent table, to be polished and placed in the right order on either side of the porcelain plates. Four trips to the hall and back have Newt’s heart pumping, muscles stretch pleasantly as he hoists each package onto his shoulder and climbs the front steps to get them where they need to go.

William is nowhere to be seen, but Newt sees a few faces he recognizes. Clementine, the pukwudgie from when he was chastised by the Headmistress, and Jefferson, a male who’d made quite the fuss when Newt had inadvertently assumed he was female, pass by him without a glance, displaying the common courtesy of their kind. Pukwudgies, like many species Newt’s come across, have very little in distinguishing between their sexes, the drop in temperature and the need for more layers only making it harder to guess their gender.

While it’s a winter wonderland outside, Ilvermorny is heated to the every stone (Newt swears that he’s seen steam rolling off the bricks and stones making up the castle’s outer layer); he’s already shed his coat and jacket, rolling up his sleeves in preparation of physical labor, despite the lack of propriety. He catches a few Thunderbird girls watching him work, which is strange, considering the fact that he’s sure that they have their own projects to do, and tries to set them on their way. They leave him, but not without giggling at some joke of theirs.

The work is halfway done when a small first-year comes running into the hall. Elizabeth Vargas, the girl who he recognizes from Newt’s little home for detention (she hasn’t since, so he assumes she’s learned her lesson), is out of breath and slightly frantic when she gets to Ephedra. “Professor! The ghosts are reenacting the Civil War again.”

This is the third time this week and the annoyance is clear on Ephedra’s face. “Those go over there, Newt. I have to deal with this before it spreads.” She rolls up her sleeves. “Come on, Miss Vargas, you’ll have to show me.”

“A dragot says it’s platoons five and six,” someone whispers as they leave and Newt pretends not to notice the chiming sound of currency. He already knows exactly what platoon was causing such a fuss and knows where this debacle will lead, but keeps to himself.

Bypassing a group of pukwudgies carrying a crate filled with glass ornaments on their shoulders, he makes his way through other side of the tree. He nearly turns around when he sees Ms. Goldstein there, only to be spotted.

“Mr. Scamander…” She stalls. “Are those the decorations for the tables?”

They are exactly just that. Newt curses his bad luck, unable to rush through this awkward meeting. He marches stiffly to Ms. Goldstein and deposits his load in front of her, hoping he’ll be able to leave it for her to deal with and make his escape.  “I assume you can—”

“Ms. Goldstein!” someone calls.

Ms. Goldstein ducks behind the boxes.

“Ms. Goldstein!” Mrs. Barrow appears beside Newt, popping into existence like a diricawl, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. She’s dressed up for the festivities, wearing a ridiculous hat that resembles a star, but her tone is sharp.“Where is she?”

Newt doesn’t know what to say, which is, apparently, nothing. The woman doesn’t bother waiting for an answer from him, shoving past toward what he can only say is her next victim.

Ms. Goldstein peeks out. “Is she gone?”

Newt smothers his smile, turning to check if the woman had left. The coast is clear, only the two of them on this side of the hall, the tree concealing them from view. “Ah—yes.”

Slowly, she comes out of hiding, smoothing out her hair as she does so. It’s gotten longer, he notes idly, curling against the slant of her cheeks. One glance at Newt’s amused expression and she flushes.

“Having trouble?” he asks if only to rib her a bit.

“No—yes—maybe.” She sighs, rubbing her temples. “I’m supposed to be in charge of the banners.”

“I would think you’d have them done in a jiffy.”

“Yes, but they’re not up to _standard_.” She makes a face and Newt realizes he’s never seen her cross at anyone other than himself. It’s quite amusing to watch and he forgets that he’s trying to avoid her. “I’m not even sure how all of this goes, much less how she wants it.”

Newt glances up at her work. The banners above the main doors flash and shiver as he looks, shifting from one house insignia to the other. Not particularly festive, but he finds nothing wrong with them. “She’s quite the perfectionist.”

Ms. Goldstein snorts. “You’re telling me.”

“Why don’t you ask Ephedra to do something different? I don’t think Ms. Barrow is helping with the catering and the house elves could do with the help.”

It’s a simple offer for a problem that could be easily remedied, but apparently not by the way Ms. Goldstein looks. Newt doesn’t think she’d be able to look more uncomfortable unless he saw it for himself. “I’m not one for domestic spells.”

“More of a dueler then?”

“The best in my class,” she admits and if she were a phoenix, Newt might think she’d be preening herself, burning with the pride.

“That makes one of us. Couldn’t seem to keep a hold of my wand at times.” Newt winces, realizing his mistake as they’re both reminded of just what lies between them, namely his excursion the other night and the lack of punishment due to her apparent kindness. “What I mean to say is—” He clears his throat and, rather than delve into that particular conversation, he focuses at the job at hand. Ms Goldstein must feel the same and they fall into silence, organizing the tabletop decorations.

A pukwudgie drops a crate at Newt’s feet with a short command to take care of it while it gets the rest. It disappears before he can explain that he’d only been helping Ms. Goldstein momentarily and had to get back to his own job, tries again when the other pukwudgies follow suit and begin to hand over their decorations as well. He’s blatantly ignored and soon enough he has half a dozen things to unpack and even more pukwudgies expecting it to get done.

Realizing that he won’t be leaving anytime soon, Newt takes a risk and does what he’d never thought he’d be inclined to do. He makes conversation. “You didn’t tell the Headmistress about what happened during my excursion.”

“What? Oh.”  Ms. Goldstein nearly drops a goblet. She tucks her hair behind her ear nervously, not once looking at him. “No, I didn’t. I thought that the Headmistress didn’t need to know.”

“Really? You said differently the other night.”

“Yeah, well, I had a change of heart.” She looks over her shoulder before pulling out her wand and flicking it at the dinnerware and levitating the pieces where they need to be. There’s no need with Ephedra still away; the rest of the hall seemed to have had similar ideas, tossing aside physical labor in favor of magical assistance. They’re getting through the work quicker now.

Newt finds himself quietly laughing to himself and opens the next box. Within the hay lies a glass statue of a thunderbird, except its anatomy is off. “Atrocious.” He quickly transfigures it into something that resembles the magnificent creature.

Ms. Goldstein sees this, but doesn’t rat him out. “How's your shoulder?” she asks instead.

“Never better.”

“Let me guess. Ephedra?” He nods. “I knew she’d give you something once she found out.”

“I really am grateful.” He clears his throat, preparing to humble himself. “I feel I must apologize for the way I acted. I shouldn’t have been so abrasive and—”

“Ill-mannered. Discourteous. Ungrateful.” Ms. Goldstein flushes, but crosses her arms at his look. “Sorry, but you were.”

“I shouldn’t have. It’s just that I don’t normally deal with other people in situations like those. I’m usually on my own, becauses people tend to get in the way, and, well, then you showed up. I was just caught off guard.”

He looks up with an imploring look, only to drop it at the woman’s hard stare. Newt wonders what he’s done wrong now.

“Are you saying I just got in the way? I’m sorry to say this, Mr. Scamander, but it doesn’t count as an apology if you remain ungrateful through it.”

He sighs. That is not what he had meant. “If I admit that I was uncooperative and ungrateful, will you accept my apology?”

“Will you actually apologize?”

He frowns his work, somewhat frustrated, and maybe a little amused at the snark. “I’m sorry I was uncooperative and didn’t listen to your warnings,” he says. “I also apologize for after. I don’t make a habit of stripping in front of women.” Newt regrets the joke the moment he says it, but accepts that it’s out in the open.

Slightly flushed, Ms. Goldstein shushes him. “Don’t say anything else or she’ll hear you!”

“Who? Mrs. Barrow?” A quick glance reassures him no one’s near enough to have heard.

“No! Ephedra!” Ms. Goldstein pulls him closer behind the tree. “You know how she is. One whiff of this and she’ll be all over it, so please, keep it between us!”

She’s a smidge shorter than he is, eye-level with his nose. “She won’t be for a while.”

“How are you so sure about that?”

Newt tucks his chin, avoiding her eyes when she looks at him suspiciously.

She gets what’s happening rather quickly. “You’re helping Hector prank Ephedra?” She looks at him like he’s lost his mind, but then her expression falters and Newt is startled to see her fighting back a laugh. “Good luck, Mr. Scamander.”

He tucks his chin. “I am getting something out of it, so I suggest you not tell anyone.”

For a moment he thinks she’ll refuse and rat him out. Instead, she shrugs. “You’re funeral.”

Ephedra wouldn’t do something extreme, least of all to him. He thinks that she’s taking a real liking to him; not only do they share similar interests, she’s as dedicated to her field as he is to his; criticizing the actions of their fellow wizards and the lack of understanding of what the natural world had to offer.

Newt doesn’t bother a response and they go back to their tasks, working in silence, only this time Newt’s not anxious to make small talk. It’s almost casual.

“I’m sorry for being so…” Ms. Goldstein starts.

“Intrusive? Bias? Impudent?”

“I’m sorry for being a little pushy,” she huffs, muttering something about his vocabulary. “So do we just continue one like nothing happened?”

“A new slate, you mean?” She nods. “Is that what you want?”

She throws him a look that he catches, hesitant but honest. “I’d like that, yes.”

Heat travels up his spine, flooding his veins and curling his toes. It collects at his chest and rises up, crawling the tendons of his neck and finding a place at the tip of his ears and apples of his cheeks. Bubbles of light fill the cage of his ribs and he coughs, trying to pop them. “That’s be— erhm, yes. Yes, I… I’d like that too.”

A smile and Newt must look away. Quickly, grasping for a distraction, he transforms the brass candlesticks to miniature dragons, exact replicas of the ironbellies from his past. He ushers them out of the box and they climb up his body like miniature felines, opening their jaws in silent roars. He lets them do as they please for a bit before offering each a candle, which they take to immediately. Once paired with their package, they fly to their specific tables, curling around the candles protectively, ready to light when the night of the dance finally arrived.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

Newt encouragely tosses the last dragon who’s hesitant to leave. It falls back on his hand, clutching its candle like a child might a toy. “A shopkeeper in Moscow used stone wolves to organize her bookstore.”

“My father used to charm the blankets as dogs and we’d ride them to bed.”

“Adds a bit of fun to life, doesn’t it?”

Ms. Goldstein hums in agreement. She’s silent and Newt finally gets the last dragon to take off. “It’s strange to see everyone here and working. Usually most of the students are gone by now,” she says abruptly. “You're going, aren’t you?”

“Pardon?”

“The formal,” she says again, slowly, timidly. “Aren’t you going?”

“Perhaps.” Headmistress Peregrine has offered him the option of not attending. “I haven’t quite decided.”

“You should.” At his glance, she rushes for an explanation. “This is the only chance you'll get, right? Why not take it?”

“I suppose so…”

“Ms. Goldstein!”

They jump. Ms. Goldstein grabs his waistcoat and forcibly moves him so that he hides her from view, only it’s too late. They’ve been spotted.

“I see you, Ms. Goldstein! Don’t try and hide!” Mrs. Barrow is an upcoming storm, jingling hat and all. “What have to done to the banners! This isn’t some No-Maj shindig!”

Ms. Goldstein bolts.

Newt, watching her escape even as Mrs. Barrow shoves past him in hot pursuit, cannot fight the smile. It twitch the corner of his mouth, curling slowly like the tail of playful wampus cub. It’s a bright feeling, the shine of it reflecting off the the bronze hides of a trapezing dragon, and it intends to stay.

That is until he realizes that she’s left him to finish the work himself.

“Bugger,” he says.

* * *

 

They meet in the hallways and it’s a strange affair. One of them always seems to be in a rush, nearly running into the other, going through the same unchanging dialogue, greetings and basics inquiries that ultimately lead to a rushed goodbye.

Newt breaks the cycle one morning when forgoes introductions to blurt out, “You forgot your hat, you know.” He’s only just noticed it recently, lying on the kitchen table since the night Ms. Goldstein left it, something he’s been meaning to bring up, but unsure as to how.

“What?” Ms. Goldstein stares up at him, confused, and there’s a small crease between her brows that draws his attention.

“Your hat,” Newt says because he’s stupidly continued the conversation without planning an exit. “You left it when you, ah…”

“Yes.”

“I can return it to you.” Swallowing is hard, especially so when he scrounges up all the courage he can find and continues. “Over tea perhaps?”

“I’d like that.”

It’s easy to set up, but life has other plans. For they make half-hearted promises—promises they mean to keep, but, for whatever reason, can’t. Newt invites her for tea half a dozen times only for something to come up. He’ll be spiffing up his sad excuse for a parlor, readying the kettle, when his suitcase falls over with an angry caw or a letter sent by owl about a duel gone wrong that needs directive, or he’ll open his door to the sight of three students awaiting detention he’d forgotten he was overseeing.

“I’ll come by after lunch,” she’ll say or, “Maybe during study hall.”

She never does, and when she inquires herself Newt’s never able to follow through. Spontaneous problems come up, and he’s ready to hand her item over, only he has to run because some second year has snuck in a handful of pixies into the Wampus common room and it’s not too long until they’re let loose, and he’s called in for expert advice that doesn’t involve releasing the manic creatures into the forest and to be eaten. Or Hector will drag him off right before lunch and Ephedra before dinner, and it’s only when he sees her again that he’ll remember.

It seems so excessive just to return a hat.

* * *

Newt doesn’t see the ending testily of the prank, nor does he hear of it from Ephedra herself, and when Hector invites him to his office the next day, he’s laughing too hard to tell it right.

* * *

 

The weekend before the dance, he's acquainted with a Queenie Goldstein.

Newt is taking a stroll through the courtyard, admiring the frosted flowers and how snow settles delicately atop benches. He’s all bundled up for the cold, knitted sweater pulled over his usual vest and his favorite scarf wrapped haphazardly around his neck. Every so often a group of students will pass by and greet him, but he's generally left alone.

Well, not entirely alone.

Pickett, an ever present companion, sticks out from between the folds of his scarf, reaching up and trying to catch the flecks of white lazily drifting down. Newt contents himself to watch, occasionally chuckling when the creature succeeds and shows him the newly attained prize, already melted and dripping into the threads of his clothes. It’s not the first time the bowtruckle has seen a winter, but the little thing still acts like it’s something new to behold and, well, Newt cannot deny how endlessly charmed he is over the fact.

He’s gathered a handful of snow to let Pickett play in, squeaking at the coldness of it all, when he hears someone call out. He turns and spots a woman he doesn’t recognize hurrying towards him, pretty and blonde and smiling from ear to ear. Newt sees Ms. Goldstein right behind, struggling to catch up with all the snow.

The blonde reaches him first. She appears far more excited than she should be to meet a stranger. “You must be—“

“Queenie, don’t you dare—”

“It’ll be quick! I just want to say hi.” The woman grins at Newt and in a mock-whisper says, “She doesn’t want me to meet you all by myself. Isn’t that silly?”

Ms. Goldstein reaches them, the total number of strangers exceeding Pickett’s comfort level, and he slips into Newt’s sleeve. “Why not?”

“Oh, she has her reasons.” The woman bumps shoulders with Ms. Goldstein. “Well, aren’t you going to introduce me, Teen?”

Ms. Goldstein huffs. “Mr. Scamander, meet my sister, Queenie. Queenie, this is Newt Scamander.”

He hastily takes off a glove and offers a hand, ignoring the stinging bite of the cold in favor of the smooth skin that slides over his palm. Etiquette has him trying for a smile, nervous as it is. “Hello, it's lovely to meet you.”

“I've heard so much about you, Mister Scamander.” Grey-green eyes take him in and he involuntarily shrinks, averting his gaze. She remains looking at him even as she says, “You didn’t write how cute he was, Teen.”

“Queenie,” Ms. Goldstein hisses immediately, pink pooling at the apples of her cheeks. It's a striking color, reminding him of how Katharine’s feathers shine when she’s particularly happy and well-groomed.

Her sister cooes. “Well, aren’t you sweeter than strudel.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, relax, Teenie. I ain't going to frighten him off.” She pauses, then grins. “He's seen some crazy stuff. You really like to travel, huh sweetie?”

“Ah,” he murmurs, understanding, “you're a Legilimens.”

Ms. Goldstein’s sister nods. “Since I was little. Though I have a hard time reading your kind. Brits. It's the accent.”

Newt finds that explanation confusing and slightly intriguing, but doesn’t know how to respond. Thankfully, Ms. Goldstein does. She reaches for her sister’s sleeve and begins tugging her away. “How about we get you unpacked, Queenie. I’m sure you have plenty of other men to torment here. Let's leave Mr. Scamander to his business.”

“Don’t let me keep you.” He nods. “It was wonderful meeting you, Ms. Goldstein.”

The blonde waves him goodbye as her sister drags her along toward the school. “Oh, sweetie, you can call me Queenie. Everybody does.”

For some reason, the sound of her fading laughter makes him flush.

* * *

 

The next time he sees Queenie, or Ms. Goldstein for that matter, is two days later, during the night of the dance.

“Your coat, sir?” an elf asks when Newt steps through the doorway.

He kindly waves the creature off before taking stock of the hall. It’s been completely transformed; it had already been more extravagant than necessary, but now it’s topped every expectation of his. The chandeliers are dimmed, the low light and dangling crystals giving the place a sophisticated touch, and with the twilight sky glimpsed through the balcony doors is all so refined. In the corner, there’s a sort of bar with an elf handing out drinks to students, while a small stage is set at the far end of the hall, a few partygoers dancing around the evergreen centerpiece.

His Niffler would go mad if it were out and about.

Newt walks along the wall, dodging attendees as they slip up the staircases to the second floor and to more private of places. He’s seen many of his students on a daily basis, seen how rambunctious they are in his class, in the hallways, during dinner, and this dance only magnifies their youngness in his eyes; children who own all the confidence in the world, but with no knowledge to show constraint. It is far wilder and rowdier than anything Newt has ever experienced, overly grand and attention-grabbing, and the boldness of all the people around him lead him to be relieved of all the high social circles he’s been deprived of since his expulsion. He quite enjoys his shed and the comforting cries of his beasts.

Despite the cold outside, most of the girls are sporting flamboyant dresses, sleeveless and cut at their knees. The more elegant attire are worn by the faculty, floor-length gowns that shimmer in the cool light of the hall. Mrs. Cannon— _Ariadne_ , Newt has to remind himself to call her by her first name at her request despite her being twenty years his senior—has charmed birds that nest in her headpiece, so elegant that she looks like she’d fit in the Ministry parties his parents often attended. The headmistress looks as stunning as ever when she greets him at the entrance, her dress the color of a healthy kelpie and reminding him of crashing waves of the rocky cliffs in Scotland.

The boys’ dress is somewhat standard, the students in precise suits or tuxedos. Newt idly pulls at his collar of his own suit, glad that his isn't as out of style as he worried it might be. He's dressed in simple black, from his coat to his sensible shoes.

One of the enchanted instruments of the band lets out a rather high note and there's a sharp point in Newt’s top pocket. He gently sets a hand over it. “You could have stayed with the others,” he tells the bowtruckle peeking out between his fingertips. All he gets is a stubborn peep. “Alright, but behave yourself.”

He finds Ephedra among the crowd and she immediately hands him a drink that he’s sure isn’t butterbeer, but doesn’t bother asking how she acquired it. He flushes when she takes a jab at his attire, playfully commenting that he cleans up incredibly well. She’s supporting a gown of red and yellow, white lacing through the entire design. It’s not unsimilar to her usual wardrobe, only her hair is free from her usual braids, falling in waves. He tells her she looks as fierce as a Chinese Fireball and she seems pleased with that.

They pass the time chatting and Ephedra comments on everyone and everything, telling him of gossip that she somehow knows is true to get a laugh out of him, generally kind in her critiquing. Newt finds it funny that Hector paired up his well-tailored suit with his worn hat, while Ephedra tells him she might walk up to Mr. Hidalgo and rip his shoddy headpiece right off his head. They both express their dislike of Ms. Barrow’s dragon-scaled purse.

“He’s persistent,” she’s saying to him after Hector has asked her hand for a dance for the third time in the night. She’d sent him off for drinks after vanishing their own glasses.

“I do believe he fancies you.”

“You’re right,” she says matter-of-factly, like she’s known all along (and she probably has). “I think I might take him up on that offer this time—or maybe distract him long enough to charm his suit to make him dance all night. I haven’t decided yet.”

“You are absolutely wicked.”

“Maybe so, but we all can all afford to be wicked sometimes.” An upbeat song begins to play, drawing in most of the students to the center of the hall, spinning and bouncing to the beat. Ephedra tugs at Newt’s sleeve towards them. “You should join us.”

Newt shakes his head. “You go on ahead. I’m not much of a dancer.”

She grabs his hand as if intending to drag him along. “Are you sure? This is supposed to be fun for everyone. I don’t want you to stay in the corner all night.”

“I am enjoying myself. Really.”

“I’m serious, Newt. Hector won’t mind.”

“I’m sure.”

Ephedra looks like she wants to argue, but stops short. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where I’ll be—and, who knows, maybe you’ll find someone to dance with.”

Then she’s gone. Newt amusedly watches her slip beside Hector, who tips his hat to her like he’d expected her. They make their way to the dance floor and dive into a fast jig that puts every other pair of dancers to shame. Newt is unsurprised by the talent.

He passes the time overseeing the general student body for any signs of trouble. A little misbehavior can heighten a party such as this one and Newt wouldn’t be completely against seeing what kind of tricks Americans might pull, prone to rule-breaking himself, but he sets himself to adhere to his adult responsibilities just this once. He is a chaperone after all.

Headmistress Peregrine, a slimming figure of emerald and gold, catches his eye across the room not two minutes later. She follows his line of sight to the refreshments, spotting the same giggling students. A nod and she’s making her way through the dance floor gracefully, coming up behind the two boys and casually placing a hand on their each of their shoulders.

It seems like his presence deters wrongdoings, a first for Newt, and he doesn’t know how to feel about that. A song passes, then another, and he lets himself accept a nonalcoholic drink or two from one persistent elf, and even a appetizer when he realizes how hungry he is.

His solitary is broken when he’s recognized, Mildred and her usual crowd swarming him like mischievous pixies to an unsuspecting victim that’s about to find themselves atop the Palace of Westminster. They introduce him to younger students that may take the class next year. Newt doesn’t bother to clarify that he’s only signed on for one year. One of the twins shyly asks if he’d teach them a step or two and he declines as kindly as he can; other partying students call out from the dance floor, effectively dissuading them from persistently asking again.

He’s almost grateful when Pickett starts making a fuss. He excuses himself and, once he can get away, he seeks at chair. He holds the bowtruckle in his palms and calms him. “If you’re truly unhappy, Pick, we’ll leave in a bit.”

Someone clears their throat.

Newt starts. His gazes follows up a shimmering hem, following the curve of a slim waist, slowly taking in the expanse of stars and moons embroidered into midnight blue, slender arms and pale skin, before settling on a pretty face.

“That’s a shame,” Ms. Goldstein says. “I was wondering if you’d like some company.”

Newt jumps to his feet. He nearly drops Pickett. “Good evening, Ms. Goldstein.”

“Hi.”

He clears his throat, scrounging up all the manners his mother laid upon him as a child to say, “You look lovely.”

She tucks a strand of hair back into place and the stars in her hair glitter at her touch. “I already had a dress planned, but Queenie was insistent.”

“It is—ah, lovely.”

“Yes. You already said that.”

Newt winces, tugging at his collar again.

“You don’t look too bad yourself, Mr. Scamander,” she adds.

Newt grins at his shoes from the compliment. “I prefer looser clothes—never know when you’ll have to outrun a graphorn.” He’s relieved when she gives him a small smile at his joke. “And I’m not one for big events either.”

“Me too.”

“What about your sister?”

Ms. Goldstein nods to the dance floor where Newt can see a blonde head bobbing up and down with the sea of students. Even with the band playing he can hear the soft peals of her laughter.

“She’s quite the social butterfly.”

The only expression on Ms. Goldstein’s face is of tender fondness. “She hasn’t seen any of them in a year, so I let her have her night of fun.” She glances at him. “You actually came.”

“Yes.” He clears his throat. “This is the only chance I’ll get to attend, so I thought to make the most of it.”

She smiles at her words being parroted back at her. “And how are you enjoying it so far? Is it all that you imagined?”

“It’s much louder than what I’m used to.” He’s being honest. The wild offers a muted loudness that’s shattered by the mere presence of humanity, like the moment his ship docked, the noise and calamity of the waterfront overwhelming and different than the calming and repetitive crash of waves against the ship’s flank. Newt felt more comfortable embarking up a lonely mountain path, breathless and near blind with the wind, but sure of his destination, it’s peak the only thing he need focus on.

“It’s different in the wild, I take it?” She smiles when he nods, momentarily taking on her sister’s talent and snatching the thought right out of his head. “New York parties usually can be heard blocks away.”

“You’re from there?”

“Born and raised.” This is the longest they’ve chatted without some sort of fiasco. They’re making progress. “And what about you?”

“I live in London, but my parents have a place in the countryside near there,” he says. “Not many parties, but plenty of wildlife.”

“And plenty of creatures to give wizards a taste of adventure.” Something teasing shines in her eyes. “A lot about you makes more sense now. I can imagine it. You, younger and wandering into something’s nest, covered in mud and grass. I wonder how many times you were almost some animal’s afternoon snack.”

“Not that many,” he murmurs in light embarrassment. “Beasts generally don’t go looking for humans to eat.”

The conversation takes a lull, not uncomfortable per say, but just full enough to have him buzzing. He flicks his gaze away and back a few times, catching into Ephedra’s form slipping through a throng of students on the fourth time his heart skips a beat at the sight of gossamer blue over the unblemished skin of an arm. Newt tries to get her attention without being too obvious, but the woman must be ignoring him because she merely turns to Hector and doesn’t give Newt a glance back. They both laugh at something she says and Newt can only think the worst.

The music shifts, the band playing a song slower and far more calming than before, exchanging trumpets for violins. Newt recognizes it as one he's heard on his radio (a favorite of Dougal’s). He watches the dance floor thin out slightly, the students that remain getting into pairs. Ephedra and Hector glide from one end of the floor to another, professionals. Queenie sticks around as well, having fun with a trio of first-years; from her extravagant, if not exaggerated movements, Newt thinks she’s teaching them a simple three step.

“Do you dance?” he asks Ms. Goldstein before he can stop himself.

“Not often. What about you?”

“Sadly, my only experience with it is the waltz and the foxtrot,” he admits. “That and, as you’ve seen, I’m more than mastered the erumpet mating dance.”

Her head tilts toward the couples already dancing. “Show me.”

“Excuse me?”

Ms. Goldstein’s eyes open wide. “Not the mating dance! I meant the waltz! Yes, the waltz!”

It's all quite forward and Newt finds his cheeks warming in response to the bold challenge. It reminds him of the nundu he has hidden away in his suitcase, how, when in season, the males must fight and showcase their prowess in order to impress the females. But Ms. Goldstein is not a nundu and does not want to see him rattle his neck quills in her honor, which makes this request all the more harder to interpret.

“That is…” He pulls at his cuffs, looking to the place beyond her right ear. “I don't think I'm suitable for—er…”

“Oh, I wasn't asking you, Mr. Scamander. I was asking Pickett.”

He stops his spluttering and meets her eyes; they are a lovely dark brown and crinkling with the force of the smile curling at her lips. It's not often that such a pretty image is directed his way and it sends a shock through his system. She’s offering him a lifeline, a simple path to follow among the complex answers of human interaction. Something clicks and the secret language of the world is suddenly decipherable.

“I see,” he says, feeling more comfortable in his own skin. “Well then, if that's the case, I'm sure Pickett would gladly, ah, ‘show you how it's done.’”

“Just for one dance,” she promises him, face earnest. She offers him her hand and Newt takes it with slight hesitation.

They make their way to the floor together, staring at one another, and it’s then that Newt realizes exactly what he’s doing, what social activity he’s willingly given into. There are dancers around them and Newt doesn't know whether to be glad about the cover or paranoid about the number of watchers.

 _Get to it!_ A voice that sounds like Theseus’s urges in his head, almost exasperated, _before she thinks you’re not interested_. Newt’s never really listened to his brother’s advice, but now could be an opportune time to start. He only gives himself a moment of hesitation, settling his hand at the small of Ms. Goldstein’s back and tucking her only as close as necessary. He hopes she doesn’t notice how clammy his grip has become.

Now more than ever, he's aware of how intimate the waltz is, two people practically pressed against one another. The countless lessons he was forced to endure during his youth never left him feeling this jittery, but, then again, he didn't care for his dancing partners.

“The gossip around me will swell after this, I’m sure. A man who slumps through lake water one minute and waltzes across marble halls the next. The duality of it all will stupify the populus.”

She hums. “I've heard rumors.”

He takes them through a careful spin. “Really? What are they saying now?”

“Oh, the usual. That you're a spy sent to infiltrate Ilvermorny, come to seduce the Headmistress.” Her lips are twitching and Newt has the suspicion that she’s fighting off a smile. “There's more, but I'll spare you the details. What's all this I hear of puffskein juggling and afternoon tea with pukwudgies?”

“Only good things, I hope. William might take offense, which would mean a thorough lecture on my part—most likely about the lack of manners wizards such as myself have.”

“William? You mean the one that always hangs around the snakewood?”

“The very same. He was telling me about a hidebehind he encountered in his youth the other evening.”

“Sounds exciting,” she says and he thinks she actually means it. A pause, then, “What did he say about your little trip?”

“He said he should’ve expected me to be as witless as every other human.”

“That sounds like him.” She looks down at their feet. “Please tell me I don’t look as ridiculous as I feel? I haven’t actually danced since I was a student.”

“You’re a fine dancing partner,” he tells her honestly.

“You think so?”

“I do. You haven’t stepped on my shoes once.”

“The night’s still young. How are you doing, Pickett?” Tina asks lightly. “Keeping up with the steps alright?”

The small bowtruckle peeks out from his collar and cheeps.

“Now you’re in a good mood,” Newt mutters, earning him a small laugh from his partner.

“I see why you keep him around. He’s charming.” She leans in close to look at the creature, unflinching when a spindly limb brushes the tip of her nose in farewell before disappearing under heavy fabric. “Has he always been so attached?”

“Ever since he got over his cold,” Newt complains good-naturally. “Makes a fuss whenever I try and separate.”

She hums, asking genuine questions about bowtruckles, and Newt falls into a familiar role that he’s somewhat mastered with his students. He could talk of his creatures all day and bowtruckles are a favorite of his despite his attempt to remain unbiased. The conversation delves into behavioral studies and wizard interaction, putting too much emphasis on creature etiquette; he can’t seem to stop himself from blabbering on, so fearful of the uncomfortable silence that might rear its ugly head once he stops, cringing internally at his choice of topics. What the proper conversation when dancing is, he doesn’t have the slightest clue.

Ms. Goldstein interrupts him to ask how he can tell each one apart and he’s bewildered at the assumption that it’s a difficult task. Their body structures are as different and unique as a snowflake, just as a tigers have varying fur patterns and Iron Bellies’ scales differ in hues.

“Would you think all humans look the same?” he blurts out before he can stop himself.  

“Of course not,” she says. “How silly of me to think that.”

She’s not angry or annoyed, nor dissuaded by his talking, staring up at him with an amused expression. Everything about her in this moment is soft and open, pulling him in. Her dress glitters under the lights, sweeping over the floor with a whisper when they spin, and Newt thinks he’s starting to like this.

The mood is ruined when two nearby couple spins to be closer to Newt and Ms. Goldstein. “Nice night for a dance.” Delilah says.

“—among other things,” Marina finishes with a devilish waggle of her eyebrows on Newt’s other side.

“A little more space, you four,” Ms. Goldstein tells Delilah and her dancing partner without missing a beat.

Newt follows her lead, for once enjoying being the authority figure. “You wouldn’t want Mrs. Barrow to see how uncouth you’re acting, would you?”

The two make quick work of darting off, probably not liking their chances of remaining detention free. Mrs. Barrow has a reputation for weeding out the indecents and shows no mercy when enacting punishment if her warnings are not taken accordingly.

Soon after, the song ends.

For a moment Newt simply looks at Ms. Goldstein and she looks back. More dancers begin congregating on the floor, the band already beginning the first notes of the next song, one that Newt knows to be fast-paced swing, but he doesn’t quite know what to do himself.

Ms. Goldstein clears her throat. She steps away and Newt lets his hands fall limply to his sides. “Thank you for that.”

“It was my pleasure.” He stalls, wondering what to do next. “Would you like a drink?”

She says yes, smiling at him prettily, and Newt feels emboldened somehow. He thinks that it’s alright, normal even, and that he won’t botch this up (whatever _it_ is).

A gaggle of girls intercept them, or rather, Ms. Goldstein. They gush and awe over her, asking what charm she used for her hair, telling her how pretty she is, and _don’t you agree Professor?_ Newt agrees and lets them continue with the conversation without him, unconcerned with exams about poisons and deadly curses.

Ms. Goldstein’s sister joins them and she smiles at him like she knows something he doesn’t. She hands him a flute of butterbeer, winking. “Not bad, Mr. Scamander.” Before he can reply, she hooks her elbow with his and leads him away. “How about you and I head outside? Get to know each other.”

“I was about to get Ms. Goldstein a drink.”

“Don’t worry. She’s right behind.”

Newt wonders how she’s confident about that assumption. He looks behind them and sees that Ms. Goldstein was heading after them, just as her sister predicted, expression mildly frazzled when she sees who’s got a hold of Newt’s arm. The students must have dispersed.

Queenie tugs Newt closer, pulling his attention. Her face is close and Newt leans back, not liking this sort of contact one bit. “Are you enjoying yourself, sweetie?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Wonderful!” His answer makes her happier than Newt thinks it should. She drags him toward the outside where the air is considerably clearer. “Good thing you didn’t stay for another dance, or else you might’ve missed the show!”

“Show? There’s more entertainment?”

“Didn’t you tell him, Teenie?”

“It didn’t come up.” Ms. Goldstein is beside them now, following along like a loyal crup. For some reason, she looks like she wants to say something particular, but can’t. Newt thinks that she’s being teased somehow.

Queenie _tsks_ at her sister, handing her the drink in her hand, before turning to Newt. “Oh, you’ll love this! It’ll be a real show!” They find what Queenie assures is the perfect spot, moving Newt so that he’s right where she wants him to be, directing her sister to stand beside him.

Many of the school has done the same, pouring out onto the outside balcony for a surprise Newt knows nothing about. There’s the chatter of the crowd, the temperature rising with the congregation of bodies making Newt feel a tad warm when he has to step closer to Ms. Goldstein, then a sudden hush.

Silence overtakes them all, humming with thinly veiled excitement. He can vaguely hear crickets and the like singing their song and opens his mouth to ask what they’re waiting for when, suddenly, the world erupts in sound. An explosion of light and the sky comes alive.

Fireworks.

They burst in the night, the sizzling light fading away just as another streak dashes across the sky, raining starks trailing after. The colors are bright and many, pulsing blue in one fraction of the night and yellow over the other; a rainbow of magic, sparkling figures running across the distant horizon and arching over clouds. It’s quite extravagant, extra in every way, particularly with the fact that Newt hasn’t seen many shows such as this. He looks at Ms. Goldstein, eyebrows raised.

“A last minute show Madame Peregrine put together,” she explains, accompanied by the brush of fingertips along is elbow. Faint with the heavy fabric of his coat, but there nonetheless. “Mrs. Barrow did some extensive concealing charms, so we don’t have to worry about the noise tonight.”

Newt’s impressed. Even if he doesn’t particularly like the woman, even he had to admit her spellwork is sound if they’re witnessing such an extravagant performance.

“Better than having someone decide to grace us with an illegal show,” Ephedra says, popping into existence next to Newt. She smiles at them, looking slightly flushed and completely pleased. “Hello you three.”

“Where’s Hector?” Ms. Goldstein asks.

“I left him by the band. Someone transfigured his hat to an eagle and it’s quite a show.”

Newt has a clue on who the culprit is. “How long will that last?”

“Twenty minutes—shorter if he can figure out the counterspell.”

Queenie laughs, loud and delighted, barely heard over the fireworks. The reaction is far more boisterous than necessary. “You have to tell me all about it later.”

“I always do.”

Newt meets Ms. Goldstein eyes. Her expression is almost sour and he thinks that that’s not all that passes between the two. “Excuse us,” she says, grabbing hold of her sister and pushing her so that they’re stumbling through the wall of students.

Ephedra leans in close while they’re gone. “You’re welcome.”

“For what?”

“For giving you some quality time with Tina.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Don’t play ignorant with me, Newt. You two have gotten close trying to hide what happened in your cottage—and I can understand why. It would cause a lot of chatter for the students.” She grins. “I hope you gave Tina your shirt as a reminder of your night together.”

“You—” Newt hastily glances at Ms. Goldstein, half flustered and half worried, but she’s preoccupied with Queenie, the back of their heads easily seen above the students. He does catch the upturned faces of students, leaning in closer so as to not be overheard.“You know very well we didn’t spend the night together!”

“You’re right. I do know that.” Ephedra pats Newt’s arm. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what really happened.”

“How?”

“The totems love to gossip.”

Newt huffs. He makes note to never pass by them again if he can help it. “Please don’t tell anyone about it. Ms. Goldstein won’t be very happy.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Thank you.”

“Hector on the other hand…” At his stricken expression, she laughs. “I'm sure he’ll keep quiet—for a price.”

He expected this sort of dealings to happen in one of his family’s social circles, not with him and a temporary teaching position. Still, he acquiesce, “Name your price.”

“He hasn’t figured out what to get me for Christmas, so I suggest you use that in your favor.”

Newt’s sure he has something in his case that might interest her, pawprints and the like. He could keep this under wraps by gambling a price with Hector, ensure both his and Ephedra’s silence on the matter. He wants to feel angry, but can’t find it in himself to be with one of the few people he calls ‘friend.’ “Wicked and controlling. A deadly combination for a witch, if I do say so.”

“Controlling has such a negative feeling to it. I prefer ‘managing the situation.’”

Newt snorts. “And a kneazle is still a regular house cat.”

Someone lays a hand on Newt’s shoulder and he stumbles forward. “I hope you two aren’t conspiring against me.” Hector grins at them, looking like an absolute mess, his coat torn and covered with feathers. His hat is the only thing about him that remains intact.

Ephedra hums. “I thought it would take you longer.”

“The spell was mighty difficult, but I figured it out,” he says good naturally. “I think I might just change him back. A fiery fellow, he was.” He turns to Newt. “So how’s your romancing Tina, Newt? Have you swept her off her feet yet?”

Newt frowns. “Where did you hear that?”

“There’s nothing to tell. Saw it for myself. A dance like that is a contract with the fairer sex. ” Hector taps the side of his nose. “I could give you pointers, if you’d like.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Newt would very much like them to end this kind of talk. The longer it went on the more chance it might spread further and that is something he doesn’t want or need at the moment. The only relief is that Ms. Goldstein is too busy to hear what’s being said and the pop of the fireworks drown out the conversation from the people around them.

“Oh, I think you do. In fact, I think you need some help.”

“Maybe more time alone?” Ephedra offers.

Nothing will become of their childish plan, but still, Newt was never one to willingly allow himself be someone else’s pawn. “I don’t—”

Hector puts his arm around Ephedra, ignoring Newt. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

Strangely enough, that gets Ms. Goldstein’s attention. She and Queenie are back and she leans past Newt to speak to Ephedra. “Where are you two going? You just got here!”

“Nothing we haven’t seen before.” Hector tips his hat. “If you’ll excuse us.”

They disappear into the crowd quicker than they appeared and Newt doesn’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed. He thinks that’s that, but then Queenie suddenly announces her desire to refill their drinks. She presses a quick kiss to her sister’s cheek. “I’ll be right back! Enjoy the show, you two!”

That catches Newt off guard and he doesn’t react fast enough as she snatches his unfinished drink. She disappears before either he or Ms. Goldstein can stop her, a certain hop to her step.

Newt fiddles with his cuffs.

If this was anyone else, he would have left already, retired for the night and not subject himself to this kind of meddling. His love life was not something to be watched and prodded for the amusement of others; he didn’t partake in the social circles his family was so fond of for this exact reason, the rules and games of the elite going against everything he stood for.

Newt shifts from one foot to another, attempts to conjure an adequate reason to leave, only Ms. Goldstein has already walked away toward a bench not far off. He remains where he is, glancing about and wondering if he should take it as an invitation to follow or to leave.

Ms. Goldstein waves him over and says something he can’t hear over the fireworks. She waves again and it’s then that Newt gets the message and walks over to her, sitting when she pats the seat next to her, leaving a reasonable space between them.

The fireworks burn with impatience, fighting to be seen even as they sizzle away. Listening to the booming and crackling of their woes, Newt wonders how he got to this point, fretting over whether he’d like to be noticed and whether it’s worth it. He glances at the woman next to him, observing the way the lights plays on her arm, on the trail of her dress. Something so simple and unimportant shouldn’t affect him so, but he’s finding that it does and that worries him.

Ms. Goldstein catches his expression, leaning into him so she can be heard. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” he says quickly, forcing his focus on the show in the sky. He’s not worrying, _he’s not_. Hector and Ephedra are just stirring up chaos, he tells himself, there’s nothing to be seen. This is what he gets for letting himself get caught up in their shenanigans.

“You’re lying.”

“How do you know?”

Ms. Goldstein tilts her head and her eyes bore into him. “Call it a gut feeling.”

Newt clear his throat. “I’m just worried over what they’ll do now that they’ve made peace with each other.”

“Ephedra found out you helped Hector and now you’re part of some joke of hers?” She laughs. “You’re the one who joined their fun. I warned you.”

“You did no such thing.”

“I didn’t, but you should have known.” She turns forward and watches the fireworks. “I used to be the newest faculty until you came along. Now that title is all yours, Mr. Scamander.”

“I assume you’re going to poke fun at me as well.”

“I won’t,” she says to the sky and Newt believes her. “Aren’t they beautiful?” she asks, changing the subject. “I’ve only ever seen fireworks this close a few times. They’re not particularly safe in the city.”

“I once saw an amazing show in China.”

“And how was it compared to tonight?”

“They have perfected it far better in the East than the West,” he tells her honestly. Now he’s the one leaning closer, speaking directly into her ear. “They take pride in their work and it shows considerably.”

“You really are set on one upping America, aren’t you?”

“I’m not.” He doesn’t mean to. At least, not on purpose.

“Really? There must be something America has done right by your British standards.”

Newt huffs, but accepts the challenge nonetheless, leaning back and thinking on all that he’s learned about the country. “You’ve chosen fitting creatures to represent your houses.” As much as he believes that Hogwarts is the superior school, compared to the powerful creatures Americans chose, a badger is a weak counterpart (but he doesn’t love it or his house any less). “If only your laws allowed—”

Ms. Goldstein groans. “You almost had it!”

“I’m quite serious. Your current laws are completely outdated when concerning beasts higher than class three,” he says. “For example: the Sasquatch Rebellion could’ve been avoided if only your government didn’t resort to unnecessary force.”

“Oh, so you’ve become an expert on American policy.”

“No, but I’ll be the first to admit that Ilvermorny’s library isn’t completely outdated.”

Ms. Goldstein snorts, shifting so that her arms press more firmly to her sides. “Of course.”

Newt shrugs off his coat and hands it to her.

“Thank you.” She takes the coat and hangs it over her slim shoulders without second thought, gripping the lapels to keep it in place. It’s a nice look, domestically charming. “Think of it this way, Mr. Scamander. America is much bigger than England. That means more people, and more people means more problems. Even the wilderness isn’t completely explored!”

“Yes, well, they have voices that are more easily heard.” Newt has to admit that this is one of the more polite discussions he’s had with someone. “Beasts can rarely speak for themselves, can they? How will you take pride in your house when there’s no more thunderbirds or horned serpents? Pukwudgies are stubborn creatures and I doubt they’ll let themselves be treated poorly, but not every creature has that capability.”

His words seem to reach her just as the show is slowly reaching its end. They trail off in silence while the fireworks burst and crackle above them, making the sky bleed reds and blues and greens. Newt begins to smell the smoke.

“Have you eaten anything?”

He had just been thinking of something to say, to prolong the night. Newt blinks, uncomprehending and she has to repeat it a second time for him to hear. “No, I haven’t.”

Ms. Goldstein gets to her feet and the folds of her dress slide down to her feet where the constellations collide in the wrinkles of fabric. “Come on. Queenie can get us into the kitchens if we ask.”

Newt taps his fingers on the stone, wondering what he should choose. He’s certainly like to, but…

Ms. Goldstein tilts her head. “Or would you rather stay and let Ephedra and Hector continue to tease you?”

He grimaces, not caring to go through that sort of ordeal again and preferring to keep most of his pride intact. It’s an easy choice after that. It’s why he accepts her hand and tries not worry over the eyes that follow them through the hall.

* * *

 

They enter the kitchen through a small doorway hidden behind a Navajo rug hanging beside the bust of well-moustached man who goes on about clabber, pot pies, and different types of stews. The kitchen itself is a large and noisy room, the temperature knocked up by the trio of stone fireplaces at the far wall cooking an assortment of entres. Newt ducks under the pots and pans that hang from the low racks, row after row of different sizes and make, and tries not to step on Ms. Goldstein’s trail as they follow Queenie further in.

The younger sister welcomes them with open arms and a coquettish smile, quickly introducing them to the gaggle of house elves that mill about. There’s Blinky and Amethyst, twins with matching green eyes, and Farby who glares at them suspiciously as he slaves over a bubbling cauldron, the only ones that stick to Newt’s overstimulated mind. There are simply too many to remember, each one bustling about their own task—he’s not sure how Queenie does it.

“Now you two need food!”

Within moments of the exclamation, they’re ushered to in seats at a table so small that his and Ms. Goldstein’s knees brush. She sits beside him rather haphazardly and there’s something intriguing about seeing the elegance of her dress foiling against the domestic backdrop of the kitchen; it bunches at her middle, draping over the side of the seat and brushing against his pant leg every time she dodges a levitating plate.

“What’ll it be, miss?”

“Shakshuka for me and…” Ms. Goldstein hums, eyeing Newt momentarily. “Do you think you could make something especially British for Mr. Scamander here.”

Newt can’t help but laugh. “And what constitutes as ‘especially British?’”

The elves chatter amongst themselves, excited if not somewhat frantic, and in the end the decision is merely to made an assortment of dishes. “Just you wait, sir! We’ll whip you up something spectacular!”

“Oh no, you don’t have to—” Working with Elf Relocation did teach him a thing or two about the frail creature’s mindset, how they never could be dissuaded once they set on a path of perfect servitude. He always had to remind himself to be mindful of their wants and he tries to keep his opinions to himself at this time. He tries to dissuade them with kindness. “I’m sure whatever you make will be great.”

That backfires considerably and Newt is partially dismayed by the sheer number of plates that are soon set before him in a neverending concession. Unable to choose one dish, the elves have forgone to make multiple, even a few dishes from Whales, some he’s only had while visiting his second cousins, making an appearance. Queenie simply sets out a single steaming plate for Ms. Goldstein.

Unwilling to offend their courtesy, Newt makes an attempt to try a piece of each, bland or not, all the while keeping up social etiquette. Half of them leave the moment he begins to tell tales of relocating the few elves he’s come across that needed immediate removal, a quarter of the remaining gasping at his talk about liberation. He tells them of Clarice and Fanny, the house elves currently working at his childhood home, of the conditions of their kitchen, what meals they usually prepared, and the elves go on like it’s ripe gossip. An especially petite elf brings him a cup of tea and for once it actually goes down quite well.

“It’s very good,” he tells her.

She squeaks, nearly shaking and blinking back tears. “You’re too kind, sir!” Without warning, she throws herself at him, grasping at the sleeve of his dress shirt with tiny fists. “Poppy has been working to make it just right!”

“I think you’re on your way to fine cup of tea.” Ms. Goldstein smiles at him from over the house elf’s head. Newt pets Poppy’s back gingerly and, even in a heated room filled with sharp sounds, overeager cooks, and a house elf with no intention of letting go of him anytime soon, he finds finds that he’s completely comfortable.

Not a bad night after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made Tina's dress different because I saw this beautiful piece of [artwork](http://saliechelon255.tumblr.com/post/155766851160).

**Author's Note:**

> I post the updates on my art blog: [njcklenjart](https://www.njcklenjart.tumblr.com)  
> I’m also open to messages on my day-to-day tumblr, njckle!


End file.
